


The Break-Even Point

by fayedartmouth



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Ocean's Eleven (2001), Ocean's Twelve (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Preseries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turk knows that reality is mostly perception, and the fact is he doesn't know how to separate Danny Williams from Turk Malloy anymore. The lines are blurred and the guise is deeper than the reality. He's not one or the other, but he's a little of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crosspost way after the fact. I wrote this fic a few years ago but am just now posting it here. Apologies for any confusion this causes. Original versions are on LJ and ff.net
> 
> A/N: This is really not my fault. This plot bunny was given to me by moogsthewriter who somehow managed to coerce me into writing this. The entire concept bridges Scott Caan's character in the Ocean's Eleven franchise with Danny Williams. Therefore, this starts with Turk Malloy and shows his transition into the Danny Williams we know and love on H50. Basic familiarity with Oceans will probably be necessary to appreciate this fic, but you by no means have to be the fanatic that moogsthewriter and I seem to be :) As for the basic timeline to get started, this fic picks up after the events of Oceans 12 and spans the time until Turk/Danny leaves for Hawaii (which means that yes, the events of Ocean 13 are covered in this fic). Because of this, there are a variety of characters from the Oceans franchise that make appearances and Rachel and Grace show up along with some OCs, but none of the other H50 team is in this.
> 
> A/N 2: In addition to inspiring this, moogsthewriter lent a lot of creative stimulus throughout the plot development. There is a lot of her in this and anything remotely good is because of her :) Beta was provided by geminigrl11 (and moogs gave it another quick once over because she wins!). Any additional mistakes and oversights are mine.
> 
> A/N 3: This is one of those fics that is long enough to be a chapter fic, but really reads better as a single piece, so I'm posting all parts simultaneously.
> 
> A/N 4: There is an awesome follow up fic to this called Tell the Truth (but tell it slant) by moogsthewriter , and we do have plans to continue on in this verse :)

PART ONE

It starts as a bet.

Like most things in Turk's life, the thought doesn't cross his mind until someone else brings it up, and then when they do, it's all he can think about.

"I bet you can't hold a real job," Virgil says, lifting his nose smugly.

"I don't need to bet," Turk replies, arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

"Because you can't do it," Virgil says.

"No, because I don't want to," Turk says. His brother is insufferable most of the time, and ever since he got married, he's been even worse. Working nine to five sounds a little like a death sentence in reality, but Virgil seems to flourish with the so-called perks.

Of course, for consistent sex and homemade meals, Turk might reconsider.

But that would require an extended relationship and while Turk likes girls, they still confound him most of the time, so he'll stick to odd jobs and driving gigs, legal or not, and ride the bounty paydays from one to the next.

"You can't," Virgil says, singsonging it a little.

Turk glowers. He doesn't know why he visits his brother so often, except for the fact that his own fridge is broken and his so-called friends seem to object to his habit of falling asleep on the couch by nine PM. Virgil's wife, Sarah, is nice, but she thinks Turk's a bad influence, and ever since Virgil got his steady job, he's been on the straight and narrow.

He's also been a lot less interesting to be around.

But he gets cable, including HBO, so that works for Turk in the end. "I can," he insists, indignant.

"You wouldn't even know how to start."

Turk gestures in protest. "Yes. Yes, I would. You go out and apply to fritter your life away behind a desk."

"It's more than that."

"How much more could it be?" Turk asks, and he's not being sarcastic, even though his voice sounds like it.

"A lot."

"Oh, okay," Turk says. He's seated on the couch; Virgil's on the chair. The TV is on some program that neither of them watch. "And what is it you do?"

"I write computer programs," Virgil says. "I develop important applications."

"Important applications," Turk repeats, and lets his brother's words undermine themselves by virtue of their meaning alone.

"Very important," Virgil says, clearly bristling a little, but it doesn't help much to disprove Turk's point.

Turk laughs outright. "Doesn't sound that hard."

"You'd never even get an interview," Virgil says with confidence.

It's Virgil's sheer certainty that pisses him off more than anything. The fact that he's never been at a legitimate job interview that didn't involve questions about how fast he drives and what laws he's willing to break is not relevant. "Yes, I would."

Virgil lifts his chin. From the kitchen, they can hear the sounds of Sarah cleaning up after dinner. "Prove it."

"I don't have to prove it."

"Prove it," Virgil says again, more insistently now.

"Okay," Turk relents. "I'll prove it."

Virgil stops and looks at him. "You're going to prove it?"

Turk shrugs and gestures widely. "I said I would."

"You're really going to pretend like you can do this?"

"No, I'm really going to do it and show you that it's not nearly as hard as you make it out to be."

Virgil looks at him for another moment, then looks back at the TV. "You won't make it."

Turk snorts, shifting in his seat. "Will."

They're still at it a half hour later, until Virgil's wife sits down between them and asks them what's on.

-o-

It's the next day when Turk realizes that he has no idea what he's gotten himself into. He probably wouldn't have remembered the bet at all, except that he falls asleep at Virgil's house and his brother wakes him up by slapping him upside the head with the newspaper.

Turk groans, and tries to roll over on the coach.

Virgil laughs at him. "The early bird catches the worm," he says, positively chipper.

Turk buries his head. "I'm not a bird and I don't like worms."

Virgil smacks him again with the paper. "If you want a nine to five job, you have to get up before nine."

At that, Turk rolls back over and looks up at his brother. Virgil is dressed in a collared shirt and it's tucked in to his pants. He is shaved and overall presentable. He's also smirking.

"I knew you couldn't do it," Virgil says.

Turk glares, snatching the paper as he sits up. "I can do it."

Virgil shakes his head, an air of arrogance about him. "Sure," he says.

Flipping open the paper, Turk looks at it critically. "I can."

"I give you half a day," Virgil says with a shake of his head. He starts moving toward the door.

"I don't need half a day!" Turk calls after him.

Virgil laughs. "I'll even give you a clue," he says over his shoulder as he opens the door. "Look in the want ads."

"I knew that!" Turk yells as the door closes.

It's only after Virgil's car starts in the driveway that Turk looks at the paper again, trying to remember if he knows what the want ads look like at all.

-o-

The want ads are interesting.

For example, people sell things in the ads. From classic cars to obscure collectibles. Turk wonders why he hasn't seen these before.

After an hour, he realizes there's jobs in there, too.

Lots of jobs. Everything from IT help desk support to elementary school teachers. Sanitation workers, secretaries, personal assistants. Corporate positions, manufacturing jobs.

Turk is surprised to know there are so many legitimate opportunities out there. One reason he gravitated so naturally to crime was that real work seemed hard to come by, but now it seems that's not the case. There's literally something for everyone out there, and for another hour, Turk's a little in awe of it all.

Then he really reads the ads.

They want experience and resumes. References and credentials.

Turk isn't even sure what all of that means, but he's pretty sure that citing roles in major thefts, both domestically and internationally, is not going to cut it. And while he's sure that Danny or Rusty could provide pretty convincing references, faking the rest is going to be pretty hard.

More than that, Turk doesn't even know what he's qualified for. He knows how to work a computer, but he's no genius. Unless they want a sloppy hack job, he's probably not the guy. He knows how businesses operate, but only in terms of weaknesses and risks. He can wait tables and cook and he's pretty decent at security, but he needs something to show his brother that he's not the dumb half of this equation.

He needs something good. Something to show Virgil what he's capable of. Something that takes skills, but isn't stuffy. Something that requires experience, but doesn't make him want to blow his brains out just thinking about it.

By noon, when Virgil comes home for lunch, Turk's still on the couch in his boxers but he's smiling proudly.

"I found it," he says.

Virgil raises his eyebrows.

"The perfect job," he boasts.

"You're serious?"

Turk nods. "Like a heart attack."

Virgil actually looks impressed.

-o-

Virgil is less impressed when Turk tells him what it is.

"A cop," he repeats. "You're going to be a cop."

Turk's actually a little excited about it. He's pulling on his pants while Virgil methodically eats a sandwich at the table. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, it makes sense."

Virgil blinks at him, then shakes his head. "No, it really doesn't make sense."

Turk frowns, zipping his fly. "Yes, it does."

Virgil puts down his sandwich and looks at Turk plainly. "How does that possibly make sense?"

Turk reaches for his t-shirt from yesterday. He smells it briefly, deems it acceptable, and pulls it over his head. "I've totally got the right skills."

"Name one."

Turk looks at him, sitting down at the table. "Name one what?"

"One skill you have that makes you qualified to be a cop."

Turk reaches across the table and picks up the loaf of bread, pulling out a slice. "I have lots of skills," he says, taking a large bite.

"Every job you've had has involved breaking the law," Virgil reminds him.

Turk nods readily, shoving the rest of the piece into his mouth. "Exactly," he says between chews. "And I was completely aware of every law I broke. As a cop, you just have to reverse it and you're good to go."

Virgil actually gapes.

Turk extracts another piece of bread, getting up and pounding the table. "It's perfect," he says. "Oh, hey, can I come by for dinner?"

Virgil shakes his head. "You're insane."

Turk's brow furrows. "That's a no to dinner?"

"That's a no to everything."

Turk moves to the door, spinning and pointing at his brother with a grin. "So I'll see you at six?"

-o-

Turk goes back to his place and promptly remembers why he doesn't like spending time there. It's small and crappy, and while he can afford more, he lacks the initiative to move.

Besides, his money is better spent on things like fast food and fast cars, and he pays a fortune for garage space outside of Salt Lake where he keeps the cars he likes to buy and tweak. He imagines that could be far more fulfilling if he actually knew the ins and outs of how cars go together, but that would take more time and effort than Turk is usually interested in expending. After all, Turk's not really one for details. At least not details he's not being paid to remember. Anyway, he can do the basics and is remarkably capable of jerry-rigging anything under pressure, but in his free time, he's sort of into instant gratification when possible.

So, really, mooching off Virgil for everything from food to housing is just easier and allows him to pay a mechanic when he tackles a car issue that requires actual finesse.

Still, somehow the dismal state of his apartment always takes him by surprise. He wonders if he should take the time to buy curtains instead of the sheets he's thrown over his windows that are hard to open and close. He might not notice most of the time, but the truth is, work has been slow lately, and he blames Rusty and Danny for that. Sure, working on the Ocean jobs made him a big name all things considered, but most of the gigs he's been offered since seem kind of boring in comparison.

Because really, how do you get excited about knocking off a local jewelry store when you've helped execute the biggest heist in all of Vegas' history? The fact that he's mostly broke even after all that doesn't help much, and Turk sort of figures that that's why he's in this predicament at all. If Danny and Rusty had never tapped him to knock over the Bellagio, the Mirage, and the MGM, he wouldn't have known what it was like to work as a proper criminal, as Basher would put it, and he could have spent his years quite happily as a petty thief.

As it is, he doesn't know how much money he has left, which seems hard to imagine, but it's true. After Benedict tracked them all down for revenge, Turk decided to put away whatever he had left, just in case, because running all over Europe with a death sentence was not exactly his idea of a good time, no matter how well it turned out in the end. And he really didn't like Virgil having anything to lord over him, so being a bit more frugal had seemed like a smart idea at the time. The problem is, of course, that he'd asked Danny to help him invest it, and the conman had done such a fantastic job of hiding it that Turk doesn't actually know where it is.

If he really needed it, he could just tell Danny, and Turk knows that. But he grew up in places worse than this, so he doesn't really see the problem, especially since splicing cable is easy and hacking modems for free wireless beats dealing with bills anyway.

Besides, he'd always assumed he could rely on other jobs for the day to day living expenses, though the usual gigs aren't that interesting to him, and he's sleeping at his brother's place more often than his own.

Ultimately, this is Danny and Rusty's fault. And Virgil's for letting him stay. And Sarah's for making Virgil buy a house big enough for Turk to crash at.

And somehow, he figures, this is also his mother's fault, because she never let him have a paper route when he was young and made him share a room with his brother all the way through puberty.

How that has got him here, sitting at his apartment, trying to forge a resume, he's not sure, but it's something of a solace.

At this point, Turk will take what he can get.

-o-

After staring at the paper for an hour, Turk has a revelation.

The internet.

He learned how to make sushi online and he even learned how to rebuild a carburetor online, so he figures that possibly - maybe - it will have some information about resumes. Hell, the internet even has a complete list of NASCAR drivers, so it has to have something of use.

His laptop is always on, and he pulls it over to him at the coffee table, clearing away a spot. He types in the URL for Google and waits impatiently while it loads. He hesitates at the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor in the search box.

Unable to think of anything else, he types "cop resume."

A second later, the results pop up and Turk clicks on one, scans the page, and begins to smile.

-o-

Finding out what he has to do is the hard part, it seems. Turk's always been good at following orders, at least orders that are beneficial to him. So even though his teachers were convinced that he was slow and uninspired and despite his mother's daily rants about his lack of motivation, Turk's always done his best work under someone else's know-how.

He knows this is why he's been hired as widely as he has. Turk doesn't get paid to think; he gets paid to do whatever needs to be done, from driving a car to creating a distraction to working a service job to build a cover. His teachers wouldn't believe it, he's sure, and his mother curses him when she sees him at their yearly Christmas get together for his inconsistency, but he's good in those contexts and no one can deny it.

Not even Virgil, even though he tries. Because deny it as Virgil might, no one asks for just Virgil on the job, and there's a reason for that.

So in this venture, finding out what he needs to apply for a job is the pinnacle he needs to get over. He figures it's all downhill from there.

After all, how hard is it to forge a few documents, pay off a few references, and create a persona to pitch?

The answer is: not hard at all.

He knows his way around a word processor, and following the guidelines he finds, he types up a history that looks solid, but not too impressive. Of course, this takes some additional work, and he has to do a few searches to find out the names of some relevant schools and places of employment. The schools are a bit of a stretch, but from all his odd jobs for gigs, it's rather easy to fill in the blanks with things that sound plausible and that he could talk about realistically if asked.

Filling out the basics is easy, but he knows that substantiating some of it will be harder. He'll need a diploma, both for high school and for college. He could use his own, but the fact is that Turk Malloy has enough of a record that there's no way he'd get hired for this kind of job.

No, he's got to work this like a normal job. He needs to create an alias, complete with fake IDs. He knows a guy who knows a guy who has done work for Linus, so he figures that he's got to be legit. He can swing a driver's license and a social security card pretty easy, and he thinks if he has the specs on the diploma he needs, that shouldn't be too hard for him to replicate either.

Turk just needs to double check his years to make sure the timeline makes sense, pick a name, and make some calls.

That's all simple, except the name.

He hates picking names.

It's hard to find one that sounds believable but not too generic, because if he's working a job, he doesn't want to have to answer to Billy Bob. Even he can't take himself seriously, and if he doesn't buy it, no one else will.

No, he needs something simple but flexible. Maybe with an easy nickname. Common but still unique.

He comes up with Williams pretty easily, since that's the street he grew up on. He figures that way he won't forget it, and easy recall is important to pulling off a seamless con. The first name is harder, though, because he's overthinking it.

At first, he thinks of Reginald, because he could dig being a Reggie. But there's something not quite right about it, and a cop named Reggie doesn't jive for him. He considers Rob, which is nice and short like Turk is, but the b at the end bothers him. He thinks historically for a second, and comes up with George, like their third president or something, but he decides that he can't envision that name without a powdered wig, so it's a no-go

He nixes Peter and Samuel and Nick. He considers Steve and rejects it promptly.

He needs to think of people he knows and respects. People who can always get the job done. People who are confident and smart, who people gravitate toward and want to be.

People like Danny Ocean.

Turk stops, considers that.

Danny Williams.

Somehow, it works.

-o-

Turk's played enough cons that getting into character comes easily. Usually he's playing a maintenance guy or some low rung service agent, but an act is an act is an act, and Turk can play a part with the best of them.

So really, walking into the police station as Danny Williams, recent Police Academy graduate, is actually easier than finding the job and making the resume. He just has to find the right button up shirt and a tie that matches and then he can waltz right in like he has every right to be there.

Because Danny Williams does have every right to be there. Danny Williams graduated in mid-top of his class, with particular skills in interrogation techniques. Danny Williams was born out east but moved out to Utah after high school to follow his girlfriend, and he's got all the paperwork to prove it.

Danny Williams worked a series of odd jobs, mostly security and waiting tables, while paying for his girlfriend to start medical school. She dumped him when she got into her residency and he went to the Police Academy for a new start.

Danny Williams is ready for a new start, and it's a damn good story that Turk can buy into. Not because he's ever had a steady girl or bothered to work long enough to pay for anything, but because a fresh start sounds kind of nice. Working with Ocean is the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him, and no matter how hard he tries, Turk Malloy will always be defined by that.

Danny Williams, not so much.

This works, he thinks with a smile as he walks up to the desk. This really works.

-o-

It's almost a little creepy how nice everyone is to him. They all smile and direct him where to go. There are pleases and thank-yous and sirs abounding. Turk's pulled enough cons in the hospitality industry to know how to work it, but it's only when it makes him blush that he realizes how few times he's been on the receiving end.

When he gets into the interview, there's a harried looking man behind the desk. He's got sort of wild hair, that he seems to have attempted to tame with hair gel and a fine toothed comb.

In all, he's only been mildly successful.

His attire is a bit more upscale, the blue shirt looking crisp at the collar and the tie immaculately kept in place. He looks like a professional, Turk decides, from the hair gel to the tie.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Williams," the man says with something of a smile as he gestures at the seat in front of the desk.

Turk smiles back, easing his way in. He's read about interviews online, and he has his paperwork ready, just in case it's needed. He sits straight and looks the man in the eyes, because that's how it's supposed to go.

Strangely, a job interview is a lot like working a con. A lot of finesse and some partial truths. This works in Turk's favor as he swallows back the vestiges of his nerves.

"So," the man continues. The nameplate on his desk reads Joseph Vincent. He shuffles papers before looking back up at Turk. "Mr. Williams, tell me, why do you want to be a police officer?"

This isn't the first question he expects. According to his research, most interviewers start off with softball questions, easing their way into the nitty gritty of procedure and whatnot. There are supposed to be questions on personal philosophies and skill sets, and Turk has thought about all of that in enough detail to come up with an answer, but this one catches him off guard.

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

Joseph Vincent's look is direct. "I'm just curious why you are interested in becoming a police officer," he says.

At first, Turk thinks to be suspicious. Maybe there's been a flag on his background. Maybe Joseph Vincent with his professional looking tie is onto him. Maybe it's time to bolt, and call this thing a wash. It's not like Virgil will remember this bet in the long list of brotherly wagers between them.

But Joseph Vincent is serious. There's no malice, no underlying doubt. He just wants to know.

Why does Turk want to be a cop?

Somehow, he knows that saying he wants to stick it to his dick-wad brother might not be the best response.

But why does Turk want to be a cop?

Then he remembers, that's really not the question at all. Why does Danny Williams want to be a cop - that's the question that matters.

Turk's not real good with feelings and he's all awkward when it comes to honesty. He figures that's why con men make the best friends, because they expect fibs amongst friends, and as long as they are all honest that they're liars, it seems to work out.

But that doesn't mean that Turk is devoid of self expression, especially when it involves the con.

He swallows and nods seriously, his eyes never wavering. "I want to make myself a better person," he says. "And I figure, if I can do that while helping make the world better, too, then that's a win-win all around. You know?"

It's not the most eloquent answer in the world, but Joseph Vincent seems to ponder that before nodding his head. "Yes, I suppose I do," he says. Then his face softens a little and he seems to look at Turk a bit friendlier.

When the interview is over, Joseph Vincent shakes his hand and tells them they'll be in touch.

-o-

Turk's not nervous.

He may not be able to sleep a lot at night, but that's to be expected with the sudden development of a hum in Virgil's air conditioner. He may be fidgety, but he's cut back on the alcohol for this whole job interview thing, so there's nothing to take the edge off. And Virgil's cable's been on the fritz, and back at his place, someone must have found where he spliced the cable, so he hasn't had much to do.

It's not that he's nervous about the interview.

Virgil laughs at him when he takes his phone out, checking it. "You're nervous."

Turk scowls, stuffing it back in. "The vibrator hasn't been working," he says. "I'm expecting a text about a car part."

Virgil nods, spooning a bite of cereal into his mouth. "You're actually nervous."

Turk takes a bit of his toast and glares. "I'm not nervous."

"You're nervous," Virgil says again, with a growing certainty that makes Turk want to take his toast and jam it down his throat.

Turk pulls in his urge for violence, because he knows his brother is trying to rile him up. The fact that it's working almost pisses him off more than the lack of a phone call, but contrary to what Virgil may tell others, Turk is adequately well versed in the art of self control. "I am not."

Self control, yes. Lying to his brother under pressure, maybe not so much, but Virgil is such a little dipstick, that there's hardly any point.

"You really think you have a chance?" Virgil asks, because when all else fails, Virgil always has condescension in his bag of limited tricks.

"I have a chance."

"Have you met yourself?" Virgil asks.

"For the record, I clean up very nicely," Turk replies stiffly.

"Getting a job is about more than shaving."

"I know that."

"Have they called?"

"They'll call!"

Virgil stops, looks at him with new wonder. "You actually want them to call, don't you?"

Turk shrugs. "Isn't that the point?"

He shakes his head. "No, no, no. I mean. You'd actually say yes."

"I told you, I can work a nine to five job," Turk insists, still defiant.

"You also told me that you were capable of pulling an A in English class senior year."

"It's not my fault that Ms. Hollenday doesn't consider GQ to be a legitimate source!"

"What about when you told me that you could break the sound barrier?"

"How was I suppose to know that it was a barrier you couldn't see?"

"And you think they're going to call you?"

"No," Turk says, pulling his shoulders back with pride. "I know they're going to call me."

-o-

They call.

For a second, Turk doesn't recognize the number on his caller I.D. He goes through a mental list of all the possibilities, because sometimes he gets calls from ex-girlfriends and ex-partners, and he prefer those in voicemail where he can delete their rants without having to fully endure them.

But it's not a girl who thought they had something and it's not a business partner who may or may not have lost money in a joint venture and it's certainly not one of his friends, which means-

Turk swears.

His ringtone is almost over, and he's shaking so hard that he can barely see straight. This is it. Make it or break it, and Turk's never been one to lay his cards on the table and walk away before seeing how the game turns out.

He answers at the last second with a breathless hello, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears. For a second, it's just him and the phone. Him and the possibility.

It's a little heady, and the hair is standing up on the back of his neck, just like the seconds before starting a con.

"Danny Williams?" the voice asks.

Turk swallows, adjusts his voice. "Yeah, this is Danny Williams," he says.

"This is Joseph Vincent with the Salt Lake City Police Department," the voice says.

Turk's chest tightens, he holds his breath.

He can practically see Joseph Vincent, sitting behind his desk, playing with his clean tie and his crisp collar. He's probably lounging at the desk, sitting there, Turk's file in front of him.

Joseph Vincent draws another breath, and says, "I've called to talk to you about a job."

-o-

Somehow, he finds the willpower to make Virgil call him.

Turk is rather proud of this feat. Normally, he'd go straight to Virgil's house, nod at his wife, and then promptly start gloating. Turk learned early on that victories needed to be celebrated and that when no one else was going to give you credit, you had to take it for yourself.

Virgil has complimented Turk willingly twice in his life. Once, when they were eleven and Virgil's attempt to hack into the school's servers almost got them both suspended, Virgil told Turk that his ability to lie without remorse was impressive. Amoral, but impressive. Turk hadn't known what amoral was, but the genuine awe in Virgil's voice when the principal had let them go was more than enough for him.

The second time was the night Virgil met his future wife. She'd been a blind date for Turk, and when they stopped back at Turk's place for some coffee, she'd met Virgil. Turk had fallen asleep playing Gran Turismo and the next morning, Virgil clapped him on the shoulder and said that Turk certainly knew how to pick them.

Turk had been too tired to really figure out what his brother was talking about and the thought of his brother moving in on his girl would have been annoying if Turk had any intentions of making her his girl. And besides, the second compliment in two decades was a reason for smugness, no matter what the circumstances.

So it seems clear to Turk that Virgil will not yield this point willingly, and therefore Turk understands that he needs to make his brother work for it. Virgil's already borderline impressed with his efforts, and his brother's desire to rub failure in Turk's face will supersede any possible decorum he might otherwise show.

In short, Turk knows Virgil will call.

Of course, patience is a virtue, and Turk's never been very virtuous, but he's managed to knock over three Las Vegas casinos, so he thinks he can surely do this. Because he wants to hear the veiled anticipation in his brother's voice, to hear the hesitation before Turk completely and unequivocally proves him wrong.

Virgil calls at 10:45, which is exactly fifteen minutes after Sarah goes to bed. Turk's been desperately trying to watch a documentary on PBS and despite his newfound aura of self control, he can't stop himself from answering immediately.

"So?" Virgil asks. "Have you been officially rejected yet?"

Turk snorts, and he's so proud that his brother's jibes don't even make him blink. "Guess again, genius."

"They haven't called?" Virgil almost sounds hopeful.

Turk shifts and straightens. "They called."

"And?"

"And I'm the newest addition to Salt Lake City's finest, babe," he says, proud and smug and borderline gleeful.

There's a pause on the other end of the line.

"What's that?" Turk asks. "No comeback? No witty insult?"

"You're serious?" Virgil asks, and the disbelief in his voice is so plain that Turk can almost see his slack face and big puppy dog eyes.

The thought makes Turk grin. "Completely."

There's another pause. Then Virgil swears.

Turk laughs.

-o-

Turk rereads the police handbook three times before his first day. He has the code memorized and practices giving Miranda rights in the mirror while getting dressed. He takes the time to polish his shoes and fold his collar crisply, polishing the badge on his uniform.

It's always important to look the part. Half of pulling off an effective con is looking like you belong.

The other half is acting like you belong.

And if there's luck involved in there somewhere, Turk needs that, too.

-o-

Turk gets a desk. It has a computer and some drawers, and there's even a few pens left in a cup on the top.

He also gets a partner named Michael Davis.

Michael Davis isn't that much older than he is, but he's been on the force longer.

"I've always wanted to be a cop," he explains to Turk. "Went to the academy straight out of high school."

Turk spins the story about following his girlfriend from Jersey, her medical school pursuits, and ultimately having to redefine himself.

Davis takes it quite seriously. "Well, I think that's great," he says. "I mean, to go out on a limb like that. Takes some real courage."

Turk shifts awkwardly. "Nah, it's nothing."

Davis looks earnest. "Don't sell yourself short," he says. "Starting something new, especially after doing one thing for so long - that's real bravery. The important stuff."

Turk doesn't want to admit to anything, so he smiles a little instead.

Davis nods resolutely. "Well, then," he says. "Let's go out there and make the most of this second chance."

-o-

It's not quite what he imagined, but Turk's notion of police work has mostly been derived from NYPD Blue and CHiPs, so he figures it's not too surprising that there's some discrepancies.

First, there's a lot of paperwork. On his first day, he has to fill out three reports and watches as Davis fills out another five. Turk reflects briefly that if he had known how much writing was involved, he may have opted for a different career path.

But he likes riding in the police cruiser. That is, he likes that he gets to ride in the front. They're surprisingly spacious and comfortable, and while they have no excitement on their first patrol, Turk is anxious to see what it's like to lock someone back there.

It's also a strangely social job. Davis takes him on a foot patrol downtown during lunch, and Davis talks to just about everyone they see. He seems to know the local business people and he smiles at children as they walk by.

Normally, this would make Turk uneasy, but when he sees that everyone is smiling back, it sort of makes it seem okay.

It actually seems nice.

Turk has never been one to live respectably. As a teenager, he spent most of his time skipping classes and trying to smoke joints in the school parking lot. His greatest service to the community, he figured, was stealing cigarettes from the convenience store.

However, when he tried to convince Virgil that this type of petty theft was actually geared toward dismantling the power of Big Tobacco, his brother laughed at him, but then again Virgil was a geek who got wedgies in the locker room at school, so his opinion had never meant much to Turk in that regard.

Graduating had been the pinnacle of his success, and he was pleased to discover that there was no notation on his diploma to indicate that he had eeked out the lowest passing GPA possible. It made his mother proud, which was a first and a last, but he had no intention of doing anything with it.

Virgil, on the other hand, was the great family hope. From his parents to his second cousins twice removed, the Malloys dabbled in activities that ranged from slight infractions of the law to full on felonies. But Virgil, with his genius level IQ and high GPA, was supposed to get away from it all.

Turk had no such expectations and no such ambitions. Instead, he took a job at his father's car dealership, which was the Malloy family's latest soon-to-be failed business venture. From there, he started picking up a few odd jobs his father passed his way, most of which were somewhat less than legal, and after some time he built a reputation as a go-to guy in small local crime. When he finally met Danny Ocean a few years later, he was eager to work for something that would do more than pay his monthly paycheck.

In all, it was no surprise that he was good at crime. But when he visited Virgil at school and discovered his brother's secret life as a bookie, he found out his brother was good at crime, too, and they both realized that they had more in common than they thought.

The years that followed were pleasant, as far as Turk was concerned. They were never wanting for money, and working a gig with his brother was actually kind of fun. He didn't care what it was, as long as it paid, and if that meant Turk avoided the rest of normal society, then that was okay with him.

And yet, here he is. Walking the streets in a uniform and with a badge, making chitchat with the people he might have otherwise stolen from. As it is, it's hard not to case the joints, see the entrances and exits and size up how much they might have in their cash registers. But the patrons smile at him and thank him, and Turk wonders if this is what it's like for most people in this world.

He thinks, maybe living under the radar wouldn't have been so appealing if he'd known what it was like to be on the radar.

It's a crazy thought.

Crazy, just like this job. Because there's paperclips and partners and police cruiser and people. And best of all, there's a paycheck to rub in his brother's too smug face when all of this is done.

-o-

Turk goes to Virgil's after work, and takes off his shoes with a frown.

Virgil is sprawled back on the couch and lifts his chin. "Something wrong?"

"My feet hurt," Turk says, rubbing his heel a little bit.

Virgil snickers. "One day on the job, you're already complaining."

"I'm not complaining"

"Your feet hurt," Virgil mimics gleefully.

Turk picks up a shoe and chucks it at him. Virgil deflects it and it flies over the couch. "It was an observation."

Virgil chuckles. "And I observe that you're whining like a little girl after one day."

"These are new shoes!" Turk insists.

"You're never going to make it."

"I made it this far, didn't I?"

"You'll never make it," Virgil says again.

"I will."

"Won't."

Turk will, paperwork and respectability and tight shoes be damned, if only because his brother says he can't.

-o-

Turk's always been the smallest guy in class. He's the kid who never fit into the smocks during art class and had to wear all his pants rolled up to his ankles. Being small, other kids always pegged him as an easy mark, which is why Turk figures he went out of his way to prove otherwise.

A few misguided kids in the second grade learned that the hard way when they tried to take Turk's apple at lunch. Turk didn't like apples all that much, but punching them out had less to do with nutrition than the general principle of the thing.

Since then, Turk never fancied himself a bully, but he didn't shy away from a fight. If someone pissed him off, he found they listened far better to his fist than his words, and if that made him kind of a jackass, Turk's always been sort of okay with that. And sure, he knows that he probably shouldn't get his kicks from making other people feel small, but after spending a lifetime looking up at people, it's sort of hard not to.

That's what's really nice about the uniform. Respect. Even if people don't like cops, he's carrying a loaded gun, and they know how to respect that. Turk's not power-hungry necessarily, but he can't deny that he likes the way people treat him when he's on duty.

All things considered, he sort of thinks his first arrest will be awesome. He gets to be a bully, jackass and in the right, all at the same time. That's a win-win all around.

And this kid deserves it. He's a punk ass, stupid enough to shoplift at a convenience store. That's not a big crime, but the moron decides to run when Turk and Davis show up. It's a short chase, and as Turk hauls him to his feet, turning him around, Davis chuckles. "You want to do the honors?"

Turk blinks, for a second not comprehending.

Then the kid he's holding curses and Turk understands.

Pulling his cuffs and hooking the kid's wrists is harder than it should be, and the Miranda rights he took so much care to memorize seem clunky on his tongue.

When he's done, Davis prods the kid's shoulder. "Okay, let's move it. A little faster now."

The kid stumbles forward, still cursing, and for a second, Turk can only watch.

He remembers, not that long ago, being a kid just like that. Pissed off and stupid, and while Turk's never been stupid enough to knock off a convenience store, he's been stupid enough for a lot of other stuff. His record isn't spotless, and that's not even considering the crimes he's committed but never quite been connected to.

And still, Turk knows what it's like to wear a pair a cuffs. He knows what it's like to screw up. He knows what it's like to get caught being a moron. If he hadn't created this second chance, that could be him Davis is walking away, just that easy.

Yet, Turk's the one in the uniform, slapping on the cuffs.

Davis glances back at him. "You coming?"

The kid looks back, too, with accusing eyes. He doesn't know, of course, couldn't possibly know just how little right Turk has to stand on this side of the law, but Turk feels the accusation all the same.

Part of him wants to run. Wants to bolt right now, leave Davis with no questions and no answers. Because it's not like Turk's not a quitter. He is a quitter-all the time. He quit all the classes he could in school and quit every other legitimate job he's ever managed to land. He's quit relationships and credit cards and scams-the whole nine yards.

And maybe that's the thing. Maybe that's what's different. Because arresting this kid is like looking at himself from the outside. And what's weirder is that it bothers him. Turk doesn't want to be that kid. He doesn't want to be a bully or a criminal or some two-bit nobody. Not now.

Apparently, Turk has morals and ideals and all that damned crap he made fun of most of his life. It was all just buried somewhere deep inside him, happily latent while he went about other, more profitable pursuits. If Virgil had never made that bet, Turk doesn't know if he'd be standing here, having these doubts, and no matter how much it freaks him out and pisses him off, he can't change that now.

(And maybe he doesn't want to, but he's not ready to think about that just yet.)

Still, here he is, a criminal who's pretended too long, and if he hasn't earned standing here, in this uniform just yet, he thinks maybe someday he'll come close enough.

-o-

At the end of his shift, Davis claps him on the shoulder. "You did good out there," he says.

It's a typical Davis kind of thing to say, cliche and all that crap, but as Davis stands there, holding his gaze, somehow it feels like more than that. "Really?" Turk can't help but asking, his cover slipping just a little.

Davis nods resolutely. "Of course," he says. "You're going to be one hell of a cop someday, Danny Williams. I can promise you that."

With that, Davis walks away, and it seems sort of funny. Davis is the kind of guy who can't lie, so it's hard to think he could be wrong about this.

And harder still to think he could be right.

Turk stops for a beer on the way home, because he's not sure which answer bothers him less.

-o-

Turk's first arrest is hard.

His second is easier. The cuffs go on smoother, the Miranda rights roll off his tongue.

The fact that these two jackasses tried to mug a little old grandmother helps. Because Turk's been a jackass most of his life, but even he has standards.

Even if he didn't know it until now.

-o-

"I had the worst day today," Virgil says, sitting down hard next to Turk on the couch. He's already drinking a beer and at the rate he's downing it, he'll need another before dinner is served.

Turk looks at him blandly. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"We had the most inane issues today," Virgil complains. "Someone uploaded their code wrong and it screwed the whole thing up. Our servers got overloaded and we had clients calling nonstop with management breathing down our neck to get it fixed."

Turk is less than impressed. "I had to chase a pair of vandals three blocks."

"That's, what, ten minutes?" Virgil says, gesturing. "I'm talking about the entire day."

Turk raises his eyebrows. "When we caught up with them, one of them smacked me in the head with a spray paint can." He leans forward so Virgil can see the blood still caked in his hair. "Davis wanted to take me to the hospital."

Virgil appraises the bloody lump with something of disdain. "I've never written so much code in my life."

"We were driving them back to the station when we got a call about a robbery in progress," Turk continues nonchalantly. "This time, it was a high speed chase."

Virgil's eyes go wide. "That was you? I saw that on TV!"

"I thought you were busy all day?" Turk points out, as innocently as possible.

Virgil's eyes darken. "I looked up for two minutes."

Turk smirks. "Sure."

-o-

When it comes to cons, shorter is always better. The less time you're invested in a character or role, the less likely you are to get made. Anything for the long haul takes time and dedication, because it only takes one lapse in awareness to screw the whole thing up.

All things considered, Turk is pretty good at this, and answering to Danny comes about as naturally as anything after a few weeks. Identifying himself as Officer Williams still gives him a bit of a head rush, but he can say it without blushing, which he figures is most of the battle.

No, practically speaking, Turk can maintain this con-but when it starts spilling over into his personal life, it gets a little messy.

But there's not much Turk can do. The guys at the station want to do drinks after their shifts and when Officer Bowden gets married, he's invited to the bachelor party. Turk's never been one to say no to drinking and strippers.

Breaking loose with the guys at the precinct is easy enough, but one night he's out knocking a few back and watching a game with some of the guys, when he gets a call.

He's a little buzzed and he's relaxed, so he doesn't think twice to check the name when he answers.

When the voice on the other end asks how Turk is doing, the buzz gets killed just that quickly. Because getting called to work a job from a guy he should probably arrest is awkward, especially when his new buddies are right next to him.

Turk's nerves must have showed, because Davis leans in. "Hey, is everything okay?"

The voice on the other end says, "I just wanted to discuss an opportunity with you."

It's like a rock and another really hard rock, and Turk barely manages to tell Davis that he's just going to step outside to take this one.

It's not a gig that's worth much of anything and the son of a bitch who wants him has a history of shorting him on the final payout, and that's why Turk says no.

(At least, that's what he tells himself.)

When he goes back inside, Davis asks if he's okay again, and Pinelli looks equally concerned.

Turk laughs it off, tells them it's an idiot he used to know who just doesn't know how to take a hint.

If Davis and Pinelli doubt that, Turk buys another round.

The next day, while drinking coffee to stave off his hangover, Turk goes through his contacts list and gives everyone ringers. If he hears Frank Sinatra, he knows what kind of business it is. Bon Jovi, and it's for Danny.

And somehow, it works.


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

The thing with Davis is that he's funny.

He's a guy who can't hold his liquor and he's the most gullible person that Turk has ever met. The guy buys Girl Scout cookies and believes every joke before everyone snickers at the punchline. Sometimes, Turk looks at him, and thinks what an easy mark he'd be. Run of the mill cons have never really been Turk's thing - he prefers bit parts in larger operations, if truth be told - but Mikey Davis makes him think sometimes.

But Davis always gets him a cup of coffee when he's at the pot and will spring for an doughnut even when Turk doesn't ask. He always remembers what Turk's doing and asks him relevant questions about the night before. He knows Turk's a rookie and makes sure to check to see if Turk's comfortable with what's going on, but he's never condescending about it.

Davis is funny. And nice.

After a few weeks, Turk still sees Davis as a mark, but instead of wanting to con him, he wants to make sure that no one else tries anything. He walks one step closer to Davis on busts and starts picking up coffee for him when he's at the pot himself.

Partners, Turk thinks with something of satisfaction. That's what partners do.

-o-

After a month or on the job, he has to have a review.

This is something Turk only understands in theory. On cons, they don't really take the time for one on one evaluations. If you're not pulling your weight, you get subtly threatened or kicked off entirely, and since Turk's never had that happen, he's really not sure what to expect from his captain.

He likes Joseph Vincent, though. He likes his punctuality, his crisp appearance. The man's impeccable in a way that no one else ever has been. He's not cool like Rusty and he's not all knowing like Danny, but there's something comforting in his stolid appearance.

Still, the idea of getting reviewed sort of freaks Turk out, like parent-teacher conferences where all he ever heard was how he showed no interest or motivation at all.

Joseph Vincent invites him to sit down and closes the door. Turk sits uneasily in the same chair he interviewed in, while his captain makes his way behind the desk and settles down.

He smiles at Turk as he goes through the papers on his desk. "So, Danny, how are you today?"

"Fine, sir," Turk says, smiling back as best he can.

Joseph Vincent nods, puts a sheet of paper on top. He adjusts his tie and picks up a pen before looking back at Turk. Then he cocks his head. "Are you nervous, son?"

Turk can't help it: he fidgets. He knows better than that, because it's a clear giveaway, but he's so sincerely nervous that he doesn't even know how to hold it in. The entire thing makes him laugh. "Maybe, a little."

For a second, Joseph Vincent's face is frozen impassively, and Turk fears the worst. That maybe he really is a bad cop, that maybe Virgil was right. That maybe this is just like all his conferences and he has no interest or motivation in anything.

It strikes him, just for a moment, as odd that he should care at all. He's lost as many bets with his brother as he's won and he never wanted to hear praise from a teacher, so why the hell does this matter?

It doesn't, he steels himself. He can give Joseph Vincent and his tie the finger and stalk on out of here whenever he wants, just because he can.

Then his captain smiles. "Why, son, there's no need to be nervous," he says with a hearty chuckle. "I've got nothing but good reports about you, and your flair for paperwork is something I wish you could teach everyone else."

For a second, Turk thinks he's imagining it. Because. Praise? Actually doesn't almost compute.

He's cheeks are flushing, but not in uncertainty. It takes a long moment to recognize the emotion.

Pride.

Damn it, Turk is proud. Because, the truth is, he's worked his ass off for this job, and someone actually has noticed. If he had known that this is what it felt like to succeed, maybe he wouldn't have been so accepting of half-assed mediocrity for most of his life.

Joseph Vincent shakes his head. "No, Danny, just relax," he says. "These reviews are formalities. You're quite the cop, and I just want to make sure you know it."

It occurs to Turk that he's never heard anything like that before, but that he'd really liked to hear it again.

-o-

When his phone plays Sinatra, it catches him off guard. He doesn't get a lot of calls from people outside of work and family these days, so he stares at his phone for a moment before he remembers he has to answer.

He nods across his desk to Davis. "I'm just going to take this outside."

Davis looks up benignly and smiles at him.

Outside, Turk ducks across the street, pulling into a doorway before picking up.

It's a legitimate job, with real payout involved. He likes the guys behind it, and it'd be easy enough to pull off.

All things considered, he should take it.

Still, he glances across the street at the police station. He thinks of Davis at his desk and his stack of paperwork to go through.

Frowning, he turns back to the door and asks if he can call back with an answer tonight.

The voice on the other end is a little surprised, but says okay.

Turk hangs up, pocketing his phone. He sniffs once, straightening his uniform before heading back to the station.

-o-

He thinks on the job offer all day, which makes him almost useless on patrol. Davis tries to make small talk about baseball and hot dogs, but all Turk can say is, "Yeah, uh huh."

At the end of the day, Davis asks if everything is okay.

Turk remembers his acting skills and smiles broadly. "Yeah, fine," he says. "Just a little tired."

Davis looks uncertain, but doesn't question him on it. He says, "I'll see you tomorrow then, partner."

Turk's stomach lurches but he keeps smiling. "Yeah," he says. "See you tomorrow."

-o-

He doesn't go home, but stops off at Virgil's. He's neglected to go grocery shopping for about two weeks, and though he could probably make do with Ramen again, he knows that Virgil's wife doesn't know how to cook for less than ten people.

It's funny, but Sarah has been friendly to him lately. She tells him one day that he looks nice in the uniform, and the fact that it pisses Virgil off to hear her being nice to him is just icing on the cake.

She greets him warmly and says dinner will be ready in ten minutes. It smells good - something with marinara sauce, if he had to guess, and she's pretty awesome with the pastas - so he thanks her and heads off to the living room to find Virgil.

Virgil is sprawled on the couch, still in his dress clothes. He doesn't look up when Turk comes in and merely shifts in his seat when Turk sits down heavily next to him.

"Long day?" Virgil asks.

Turk shrugs. "Pretty average. You?"

"We had a programming crisis," he reports. "Average."

Turk nods and they lapse into silence while the local news plays. "I got a job offer today," Turk says. "I didn't know you had applied for anything else," Virgil says.

Turk chews the inside of his cheek. "No, I got a job offer," he clarifies.

At this, Virgil looks at him. "Oh," he says. He pauses, thoughtful. "You going to take it?"

Turk gathers a breath. "It'll pay good."

Virgil nods.

"Low risk."

Virgil nods again.

Turk sighs. "I have no reason not to take it."

Virgil lifts his eyebrows, then flicks his badge. "I can think of at least one."

"You think?" Turk asks, truly curious.

Virgil laughs, smirking a little as he turns his head back to the TV. "Do you know how many job offers I get and turn down?"

Somehow that's a relief. "Really?"

Virgil is still snickering. "It's all about risk management," he says.

"You just don't want your wife to throw you out," Turk comments.

Virgil's smile fades. "At least I have a reason," he says. "You just like being a cop."

Turk's hackles flare. The fact that it may be true is not something he cares to consider at the moment. "That's not it."

"That's not it," Virgil repeats facetiously. "Then what is it?"

"It's a good con," he defends.

"Oh, so it's a con now," Virgil says.

"Yes, it's a con."

"Who are you conning?"

Turk hesitates, then shuts his mouth with a glare. "You never know when being a cop will pay off."

"Right, so your stock in donuts will soar."

"It's a good con," Turk repeats with a little more vigor.

Virgil laughs again with a knowing nod, turning his attention back to the TV. "Uh huh."

"It's true," Turk says, more insistently.

Virgil shrugs with infuriating ease. "Whatever you say."

Turk's eyes narrow. "It is."

-o-

After dinner, Turk thanks Sarah. He snubs his brother and goes back to his place. Still, he thinks about what Virgil said, about how it's okay to turn down jobs. Being a cop is a good con, and he can still hear Davis saying, "See you tomorrow, partner."

He's not ready to give that up just yet. Damn it, he's just not.

He makes a phone call and says he's out for this one, but maybe they can catch him another time.

-o-

He works a lot of cases with Davis, covering a whole variety of things. Traffic violations are pretty par for the course, but they pick up other stuff, too. Domestic disputes, robberies, assault, vandalism. It's remarkable to Turk how many things people call the cops for.

Most of his cases are small, disconnected things. It takes a day to sort them out, finish the paperwork, and move on to the next thing.

Until the string of broken windows on the south side of town. It starts off as just one or two disconnected incidents, but when he picks up a call about a third, he asks Davis if that's normal.

Davis looks at the information and then flips through their old case files. He pulls a few other files and sits back, shaking his head and grinning.

"Looks like you found us a real case."

Turk looks at him, not sure what to say.

Davis gets up, pulls his things together. "It's time for some real police work," he announces, and he's excited with a bounce in his step.

Turk hurries to follow, and wonders how he missed out on the fact that he hadn't been doing the real thing before.

-o-

Real police work is kind of amazing.

It's a little of everything Turk's done - interviewing, canvassing, going through paperwork - but it brings it all together and requires much more attention to detail. It's like putting together a puzzle, and for the first time, he thinks he has some idea why Danny Ocean does what he does so prolifically.

Because there's something invigorating about it. Seeing the big picture and honing in on the relevant details. When he goes home from work, he finds himself thinking about the case, jotting down notes on napkins as he comes up with new insights.

He stays late, even when his shift is over, and once he even calls Davis at home when he comes up with a new idea.

"You're really into this one aren't you?" Davis asks, and he sounds amused.

Turk frowns. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no," Davis says. "It just means you're a cop."

The answer weirds Turk out so much, that he hangs up the phone and makes a point to stare at the TV all night, no matter what's on, ignoring all the notes on his coffee table as best he can.

-o-

He can't help it, though. Just like Danny Ocean could never walk away and Rusty Ryan always spends more than he makes, Turk can't leave the case alone. He's enjoyed things before, but he's never felt so connected to anything he's done in his life - not even a con. It's a strange thing, because he's always thought that he's been happy with his life, but he's never felt this type of total satisfaction before. Ever.

When they finally catch the pair of morons who are pulling the jobs, he feels so good about it all that it's all he can talk about at Virgil's that night.

Virgil listens politely. When Turk pauses, he says, "You really are taking this seriously, aren't you"

Turk tenses. It's reflex to be defensive. "What?"

"You're really enjoying this job."

It's true. Turk knows it, but hasn't let himself think about it. But it's true. He's been downright giddy about this case. Obsessed. It's taken over his life. He's been working this job so long, that he's stopped thinking like a criminal, and started thinking like a cop. He's been less of Turk and more of Danny and he hadn't realized how far it was going until Virgil is sitting there, looking at him like that.

This isn't good, Turk thinks. He's always kept himself separated from the con. It makes it easier to cut and run when he needs to. And he always needs to. Always has, always will. It's a con, Turk reminds himself with bitter clarity. A con.

Because he's not really a cop, no matter who tells him he is. Turk Malloy is still a criminal living outside the law, playing whatever angle he can to make a buck and leverage some power for himself. He has to play the part, he tells himself, trying to curtail the enthusiasm. He has to play the part.

He shrugs stiffly. "It's all part of the con," he tries to explain.

Virgil snorts a little. "Uh huh."

"It is," Turk says. "I have to play the part. Solving cases is playing the part. It's just part of the con."

As if he can say it enough times and it will finally be true.

-o-

It's a little harder to believe that this is all part of a con when the gunfire starts.

Sure, it's easy to play cop when he's pushing papers and giving speeding tickets. Even investigation comes easy enough, and Turk's worked harder for some of the cons he's been in on. But the nice thing about working with the likes of Danny Ocean is that while it's all dangerous, they've got contingencies and easy outs in place to cover their asses in case of emergency.

As a cop, Turk's got a partner and a gun, and while he's used some of his escape routes in the con before, this one is one he's not quite ready for.

Because he can BS his way through procedure, but taking out his gun and firing is a whole new level of screwed the hell up.

Turk can fire a gun, and pretty decently. It's one of those common male pastimes, right up there with NASCAR and model cars. He got his first BB gun when he was eight, but he'd been using one he stole since he was six, so he knows how all this works.

But something he doesn't know is that firing at birds in the desert is a whole hell of a lot different than a pair of robbery suspects running down an alley.

Especially when they're firing first.

He and Davis get the call, and it's just around the corner on their patrol. When they come in, Turk expects the crime scene to be empty, but turns out that it's hot. The front door is smashed and when they run inside, there's a hysterical clerk pointing toward the back.

Turk doesn't have a chance to freeze, not with Davis charging headlong in the direction of the woman's frantic jabbing. For all of Davis' goofiness and oddities, he's downright cool under pressure, and Turk is sprinting to keep up.

The back door is ajar and they blast out at full speed. They skid, and by the time Turk gets his footing, Davis is already moving down the alley.

Without thinking, Turk follows, and it's not until he hears the gunshot that he realizes just how close they are to the perps.

Because that bullet is close enough that he hears it ping off the dumpster behind him.

Swearing, Turk takes a dive, rolling quickly out of the way to find cover. He's surprised when Davis isn't following, but has his gun pulled and is returning fire.

Another volley comes back at them, nicking the fire escape on the building, and Davis finally heads for cover, but not before laying down another round.

Pressed against the wall, Davis glances back at him. They're on opposite sides of the alley, Davis in a doorway and Turk behind the dumpster. The perps down the way are still firing, inexplicably looking for a fight.

Of course, it probably doesn't help that Davis is still firing at them, effectively cutting off what would otherwise be a clean getaway.

Until Davis' gun jams.

At first, it's just another lull in the gunfire, but when it stretches on, Turk realizes that his partner is vulnerable and the bad guys are going to get away.

Davis has to duck, curling in when a new round of fire hits closer to him. It's not a fair fight. There are two of them and one of Davis, who is still trying to fiddle with his gun.

Except that's not the case. There are two suspects, two cops. That's why all patrols have partners.

It's not just for talking buddies. It's for this.

Turk breaks out into a cold sweat, and for the first time since starting this job, he wishes he could call the whole thing off. Because he can pretend through a lot of stuff, but this? He's either in or he's out, and he can't half-ass it this time.

But what choice does he have? Let Davis die? Let them get away? Turk can't say for sure what they'll do, but if Turk doesn't act now, it could go from bad to worse, just that quick.

Another round of gunfire cuts through the alley, and Turk takes a breath, pulls his gun and gets to his feet.

Turning, he spins out far enough for a clear shot, narrowing his eyes to aim at the first suspect. His shots aren't perfect, but close enough, and he sees the suspect roll away.

When a new volley of gunfire clinks on the dumpster, he ducks back again, heart pounding. When there's a pause, he pulls out again, alternating his fire between the first suspect and the second.

Return fire is almost immediate, and Turk pulls back just enough to protect his body but keep firing. He doesn't have a lot of rounds left on this clip, so he has to make them count.

He fires his last shot, and he sees one of them go down, falling to the ground with a cry of pain.

The other promptly turns heel and runs, and Turk is fumbling to reload while trying to move after them.

But Davis is yelling into his radio, about back up and medical assistance and one suspect headed north.

With his gun reloaded, Turk approaches the perp, who doesn't resist when Turk gets closer. His eyes are pained, cheeks stained with tears. He's holding his thigh, which is seeping blood quickly on the pavement.

Turk kicks his gun away, keeping his aim steady. The guy shows no signs of fighting back, swearing and crying on the ground.

Turk doesn't know him, but he recognizes him all the same. A petty thief. A guy looking for a quick buck. In reality, they're probably not all that different. It's just that Turk knows how to pick better scams.

But that could be him, and he can't shake that. He can't shake the way it felt to be fired at, the way it felt to see Davis so vulnerable. He can't shake the guy's face, the tears and the blood, and wondering if he has any right to be here at all.

As they're processing the scene, Davis comes up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for bailing me out, man," he says, and he's genuinely grateful. He doesn't seem to notice that Turk didn't draw his gun until it was almost too late. "It means a lot."

Turk swallows hard and tries to smile. "It's nothing."

"No, it's something," Davis says. "It's a hard thing, first time drawing your gun. But you did great."

Turk takes a breath, and tries to believe it. But his arms feel like jelly and his heart won't stop pounding, and he sees the way the guy falls again and again in his mind.

It could be him, he still thinks, gun still warm in his holster. Maybe it should be.

-o-

There's a lot of paperwork for firing your gun in the line of duty, but all things considered, Turk prefers it. Being at his desk feels safe, and while he's never been averse to risk, this seems different somehow. Cons are dangerous. Heists aren't for the faint of heart.

But Turk shot someone today. He almost saw Davis get shot. He hasn't even let himself consider just how close he came to taking a bullet himself.

As it is, he still remembers the way the perp fell to the ground, the sight of his blood. He's going to be fine - the bullet only winged him - but there's a weight to this that Turk is only beginning to understand.

The immediate fear and revulsion was one thing, but the growing sense of reality that has followed is entirely another. Internal Affairs is checking his gun, and he's scheduled to talk to their captain tomorrow, and the report is asking for every detail he can remember (and quite a few he can't). Turk's always done what needs to be done, but it's different this time.

He's different this time. Because he's not just running into his brother and making a scene. He's not just driving a van to make a clean getaway. He's not traipsing into museums with a woman with a pillow shoved under her dress. He's not wearing a SWAT uniform and putting on a good show. Hell, he's not even being taken to prison just to be broken out.

No, this isn't just another con. This is police work. Cops do this stuff, and they do it every day. That's why Davis can look so calm, that's why Davis didn't hesitate. Davis is a cop.

Turk's not a cop. Turk's a low brow criminal who's playing a card to show his brother he can. He's working a gig because it's a silly bet that might pay off in some way. Turk can wear the uniform, he can hang out with the guys, and he can know the police code, but it's more than that.

And Turk doesn't know if he's ready for more than that.

The thing is, when it's a con, it's easy to let go of it all. He might feel guilty about duping someone innocent, but in the name of the greater good of the team, it's always an easy sell for him. He can compromise morals and break laws, and he can lie and cheat and steal, and none of it has ever really bothered him much, because really, it's never been him. It's a con, a ruse, and once it's over, he's going to go back to his simple life and do the same things he's always done. Drink heavy, watch TV, play with cars, and piss off his brother.

He can walk away here, too. He knows he can. Danny Williams is no more real than the man in the moon, and if Turk walks away, there's no strings attached that he can't cut completely.

Except...the way Davis pats him on the shoulder to tell him he did good. Except the way it feels. It's not a good feeling, but it's not a bad feeling either.

It's just a real feeling. And somehow Turk knows that no matter how far he goes or how completely he burns this alias, that feeling won't leave him. It's fear and it's guilt and it's pride, and the fact is, Turk isn't sure he wants it to go away.

So he files his paperwork, lets Davis buy him a beer. And he'll be back tomorrow, just to see how long the feeling lasts.

-o-

"You shot someone!"

Virgil is a little beside himself at the news.

It's probably Turk's fault for bringing it up, but when Virgil asks how Turk's day was, it's all he can think of.

"You actually shot someone!"

Turk shrugs, and is suddenly glad that Virgil's wife has to work late tonight. They're splitting a frozen pizza all the same, and Turk's still nursing a beer. "He fired first."

"Yeah, because you were chasing him," Virgil says.

"He robbed a store."

Virgil stares at him. "You do remember that you robbed a casino."

Turk nods. "Three."

"Did you want a cop to shoot you?"

"I didn't carry a gun."

"I think you're missing the point."

Turk shrugs in frustration. "He was trying to kill us!"

"Which is why you should have let the police handle it!"

"I am the police!"

Virgil's mouth opens wide, then closes. His eyes are a little bugged. "You're not actually a cop, you know that, right?"

"I have a gun and a badge," Turk points out.

"Danny Williams has a gun and a badge," Virgil reminds him. "You're Turk Malloy, and Turk Malloy's a poor excuse for a criminal on the best of days, so you really shouldn't be running around popping people. This is a little out of hand, don't you think? Even for you?"

Maybe it's because it's been a long day. Maybe it's because he's a little buzzed. Maybe it's because Turk's spent the day trying to take this seriously and Virgil is making it a joke again. Maybe it's just because part of that - all of that - hurts.

Turk downs the rest of his beer and shakes his head. He gets to his feet. "Just never mind," he says.

"This isn't something I can never mind," Virgil says. "You shot someone! This was a dumb bet and you shot someone!"

Turk moves toward the door and doesn't look back. "You wouldn't understand."

"I think I understand better than you do," he says.

Turk doesn't slow down, doesn't look back.

"Turk!" Virgil calls.

Turk ignores him, opens the door and lets it slam behind him. Safely inside his car, he grips the steering wheel, eyes burning, and he refuses to blink. After a few long breaths, he starts the engine and goes home.

-o-

Turk goes to work the next day. The captain calls him into his office. Turk doesn't listen to most of it, answers the questions in staccato syllables, so he's surprised when the captain smiles at him, holding out his hand. "You did good, son," Joseph Vincent says, nodding tightly against his pressed collar. "You did good."

Turk can only hope that's true.

-o-

Turk doesn't go to Virgil's house for a while. After two weeks, he gets a commendation from the mayor, for courage displayed in the name of duty. There's a small reception and he gets his picture taken for the papers.

The next night, Virgil calls him. "So, uh. I saw your picture."

Turk shrugs coldly. "Yeah."

There's an awkward pause. "So you really saved your partner's life?"

Turk chews his lip. "They made it sound like more than it was."

"Davis is your partner?"

"Sure."

"He says, Danny's just that kind of cop. He'll do anything for what's right, even if it might be dangerous."

Turk hasn't read the story. Hasn't wanted to. The quote makes his stomach churn.

"I mean, that's pretty amazing," Virgil says. "I can't believe they gave you an award."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for it," Turk says, a little curt.

"I know," Virgil replies readily. "I just. You're better at this than I thought."

It's a small admission, but Turk hears it for what it is. An apology. A validation.

In all, it's more than he's gotten in so many years of brotherhood.

And it makes all the difference. Because Turk's been trying to believe it himself. He's been trying to believe that he's doing the right thing, that he's good at what he does. That this isn't a mistake, even if it is still a con.

Virgil swallows, continues. "I just had no idea you could pull it off," he says. "A con for this long. And this complicated."

He doesn't say that it's more than a con, and Turk doesn't either. If they're both thinking it, that's something else entirely.

"It's a good cover," Turk says. "Might come in handy."

"Yeah, if I've ever been robbed, I'll know who to call."

"If you're robbed, you probably deserve it," Turk points out.

Virgil chuckles. "Like you don't."

Turk smiles. He can't argue that point, and doesn't really want to. "People won't suspect a cop," he still offers, a little smug.

"Yeah, you may have a point."

"Of course I have a point."

Turk can practically hear his brother roll his eyes. The fact that he doesn't have a comeback means more than anything else.

"So you want to come over?" Virgil asks, a little shy, but trying not to show it. "My wife made cookies."

This piques Turk's interest. "Chocolate chip?"

"And oatmeal," Virgil confirms.

Turk makes good time.

-o-

For a while, life is pretty good. It's simple and predictable. Turk goes to work and jokes with Davis. He does his job, and does it well. After work, he hangs out with the guys and visits Virgil. This is the longest Turk has gone without trying something stupid, and in all the time that passes, he doesn't even realize just how long it's been.

Until he gets the call.

The ringer surprises him - most of his old contacts have stopped calling. Turk's declined all the jobs he's been offered, and the criminal world knows how to take a hint. But when he picks up the phone curiously, he recognizes the number and his heart skips a beat.

Danny Ocean.

He's getting a call from Danny Ocean.

Danny Ocean might make a social call, but he never makes a pointless one. Turk can say no to everyone else, but it's always hard to say no to Danny. Because Danny's plans are the plans you don't say no to, because the payoff's always too good.

That's why Turk almost doesn't answer it.

But it keeps ringing, Sinatra's easy melody twisting in his head. Danny's calls are always important, and yes or no, Danny will understand. Turk has to know.

Picking it up, he swallows back the lump in his throat and ignores the dread in his stomach. "Hello?"

-o-

In Vegas, Reuben looks bad. Turk's never been one for the sick and hospitals, so he's not sure how bad it really is, but Turk figures when you're hovering near death, the degrees of screwed up actually don't matter.

They all show up, one by one. He and Virgil make good time, on emergency leave from work to visit their sick uncle. Some of the team takes longer, flying in from around the world, and when they're all finally there, they share a solemn solidarity.

But Danny has a plan. And Rusty has some ideas on how to pull it off.

As Turk listens to the primitive details, he realizes that of all their farces, this one will be the most involved. It's less of a job than it is a lifestyle change.

Danny looks at them, one by one by one. "It's your choice, and I know what this is asking," he says. "Take a week or two, and then tell me whether you're in or out."

-o-

Turk and Virgil go back to Utah for the weekend. The drive is quiet, tense. There's a sadness.

"So what are you going to do?" Turk asks.

Virgil just stares at the road. "I have to talk to my wife."

Turk watches his brother a minute more, and sighs, looking out over the flash of their headlights on the highway, and tries not to think about how bad this really is.

-o-

The next day, back at home, Virgil comes over. It's late, but Turk hasn't slept. He hasn't done anything except stare at the wall and think about the jobs he's pulled.

Virgil alternates between sitting on the edge of Turk's sagging couch and pacing across his dirty floor.

"We have to do it," Virgil says, rubbing his chin. "We don't have a choice."

They've been having this conversation for nearly an hour. Turk gestures from his chair. "You said you were done."

Virgil glances at him. "It's Reuben," he says. "The son of a bitch almost killed him."

"Danny and Rusty can do it without us," Turk points out.

Virgil shakes his head, starts pacing again. "A job this big? We're down one without Reuben anyway."

Turk rubs his palms on his thigh absently. "It's a big risk," he says. "You have a wife. A job."

Virgil sits down again, looking at Turk bleakly. "They'd do it for us," he says.

Turk sighs, letting his head drop back against the chair. It's the truth they keep coming back to, the point they can't argue away. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

-o-

Virgil goes home late, but Turk can't sleep when he leaves. He lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling wondering how this got to be so hard. Working a job for Danny Ocean should be a no brainer; doing it for one of the team, even more so.

But Turk's never had this much to lose before, and he's not sure how it got that way. Being a cop was a bet, a silly con. It was never meant to make him respectable.

But the thought of leaving the precinct, of not being Davis' partner - is hard. Harder still is thinking that one wrong move on this job, and he ends up being just like the nobodies he's locked up.

He's always known the inherent risks of a life in crime, but working to undermine one of the biggest tycoons in all of Vegas? They are suicidal.

Of course, they've always been a little suicidal, so Turk's not sure why it bothers him now, especially when his so-called day-job requires him to carry a gun.

But this isn't about that. It's not about the risks or the benefits, it's about Reuben, who's lying in a hospital bed after being screwed over by Willy Bank.

That's an image Turk doesn't like, and he understands why Danny's voice had such an edge on the phone. This is personal.

Being a cop is dangerous - Turk knows that by now. But being a criminal is more so, because a cop in the line of fire is a hero, but taking one when working just outside the law is screwed up. Criminals have no one to turn to for help except other criminals, which is why a bond among thieves is so damn important.

And to think, this wasn't even a con. Reuben was playing the game legit, and he still got screwed. But another thing Turk's learned from his time as a cop is that the best criminals are the kind you can't nail to the wall, and Reuben will never get retribution from the law.

Because Reuben's a Vegas mogul who could be past his prime. He's had good business deals and shady ones, and no one wearing blue is going to look twice at his heart attack and hold Willy Bank accountable.

Turk doesn't want to admit it, but there are some things the law can't do and there are some crimes his badge can't rectify. If he's going to help Reuben, he can't do it as Danny Williams.

No, Danny Williams is pretty useless to Reuben. But Turk Malloy...

Turk Malloy can make a difference. It's just a question of whether he's going to or not.

-o-

It's a decision that Turk makes, but he somehow knows that Danny Williams would agree. Because Danny would do anything for Davis, and if he can pull a gun and shoot someone for a guy he's only known a few months, then Turk will go out of his way to make sure that Willy Bank pays for what he did to Reuben.

Because Reuben's a partner, just as much as Davis is. Reuben and the rest of the guys - it's not a question of what's smart, it's a question of loyalty. When Turk decided he was in all those years ago in Reuben's living room, he made a lifelong commitment, and he can't ignore that now.

The fact that Reuben tried playing it right and got screwed just makes it more important to Turk, because he understands the need for second chances, and it makes him hate Bank even more for taking that away from someone who was playing the game as honestly as he could.

Decision made, Turk picks up his phone. It connects, and Danny Ocean answers on the other end.

Turk doesn't have to say much, but he says the thing that matters: "I'm in."

-o-

If Turk's in, he's in, and he knows when he makes the decision just what it means.

It means months of work and preparation. It means spending money and working undercover. It means late night meetings and thorough plans. It means leaving Utah and moving to Vegas.

It means quitting his job.

Even if Turk could handle the commute from Nevada to Utah, there's something deeply problematic about upholding the law in one job and undermining it in another. He can't be a cop and a criminal - at least not at the same time. So if Turk's in with this gig, he's out of being a cop.

Turk tells himself that this was inevitable. It's never been a permanent thing. This is a long con, a silly bet. Walking away shouldn't be hard.

But when he files his two-week notice, it really, really is.

-o-

Turk tells himself that he doesn't want to burn this cover completely if he can help it, which is why he puts in for notice and cites personal reasons for leaving. Joseph Vincent calls him in and looks at him quite seriously, holding up the notice. "I have been looking at this all morning."

Turk sits uncomfortably in the chair. "Yes, sir."

Joseph Vincent's face is pinched. "Are you serious, son?"

Turk blinks. He's never given notice before, but he's pretty sure he did it right. He double checked the policy and everything. "Yes, sir," he says, less certainly than before.

His captain sighs, shifting. He's wearing a blue shirt with navy pinstripes and his checkered tie is neatly knotted under this collar. "You're one of the best damn cops I have right now," he says. "Reliable, thorough. Everyone likes you, and you've got a clearance rate that puts some of our veterans to shame. Did you get a better offer? Moving to the private sector?"

Turk realizes now that he's not in trouble. Joseph Vincent isn't chewing him out. He's trying to get him to stay.

It's a little flattering and a lot confusing. Turk's brow furrows. "No. I mean. There's just some things I need to do."

"We can fast track you into taking the sergeant's exam. I think you're a shoe-in. Even a detective. You name it, son, we can do it."

These are things Turk hasn't even started looking for, and the sudden possibility is a little overwhelming.

Even more so when he knows he can't take it.

This isn't his life, and it can't be his priority. He forces a smile, and shakes his head. "Really, sir, it's something I have to do for a friend. I've loved my time here, but I have to do this."

"I can respect loyalty - I really can," his captain said. "But think about what you're doing here. Think about what you're giving up."

Turk has. Turk has and he will. Even if he can't change it, he'll always know what he's sacrificed. "I know," he says, a little stiff.

Joseph Vincent sighs, pushing the paper away from him. "I'm not filing this just yet," he says. "Give it a few days and really make sure that you're sure about this."

"I'm sure," Turk says.

His captain looks a little pleading. "Just give it a few days."

-o-

In a few days, Turk's answer is still the same.

It's just harder to admit that.

-o-

On his last day, Turk is anxious to be done. These two weeks have been hard. Everyone has asked him why and no matter how many times he explains it, it's never easier to accept. By the end, he just wants to leave so he doesn't have to think about it anymore.

He has his box packed with his possessions from his desk. There's some photos of him and the guys, and some other random paraphernalia he's collected from his time on the force. He leaves the cup and the pens, and gives his stapler to Davis, who's spent the last few months coveting it.

He's about ready to walk out, when Davis takes him by the arm. "You didn't think you'd get out that easily, did you?"

At first, Turk fears the worst, thinking after everything, he's actually been made. But when Davis pulls him into the conference room, he sees half the precinct there, with a cap and drinks and a banner that says, "Good Luck, Danny."

It's a makeshift party, but Turk almost cries right there on the spot, because he can't deny it anymore. He's not just leaving a job, he's leaving a family, and picking one family over the other may be necessary but it's certainly not easy.

As Turk eats the cake and drinks the punch and laughs with his colleagues, it's definitely not easy.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Leaving is hard, but coming back is easy.

It's like no time has passed, and the team falls back into the same rhythms. Livingston can't sit still and Frank checks his nails. Saul sits heavily on the couch, usually with a glass of alka seltzer nearby. Linus spends too much time on the phone, usually talking loudly enough for everyone to hear, and Basher's always got a pet project he's toying with, be it for the job or not. Yen talks and Turk has no idea what the hell kind of language is coming out of his mouth, but he always understands him all the same.

Even Virgil fits in, making small talk with Basher that makes no sense to Turk and snickering over bad TV with Yen. And Danny's always there, careful and controlled, while Rusty comes and goes, but always shows up when he's needed.

Sometimes it's hard to remember why they're doing this, because it still feels like Turk's been doing this all his life.

And, really, he mostly has. The last year has been a foray into the unusual, and this job is a homecoming in all the ways that count. They stay in nice hotel rooms and there's always something to drink, and sometimes Turk gets to play with heavy machinery, which totally makes up for the time he spends pulling his part of the con.

Because, of all things, he's a waiter.

Yes, Turk's worked far less glorious positions, but the routine of taking orders and serving meals seems harder to deal with than it used to. He's carrying a meal ticket and a pen, when he's used to his gun and walkie talkie. He doesn't look bad in the red uniform, but sometimes he feels a little naked without his badge.

But Turk still remembers why they're doing this, even when it's hard. Someone hurt Reuben, and that's a problem they have to fix.

Turk tells himself that every morning and thinks it every night before bed. He keeps hoping that makes it easier. It never really does.

-o-

Turk's not listening.

He should be. Danny's going over something, and Turk knows that no details are irrelevant.

Still. He's not really listening.

"Did you hear me?" Danny asks.

Turk startles, looks up. "What?"

Danny smiles. "You okay?"

Turk nods automatically. "Sure."

Danny is watching him in that way that only Danny can. "You seem off."

Turk makes a face. "I'm not off."

"Are you upset that Virgil's the one in Mexico?"

Turk makes another face. "Why would I care about that?"

Danny shrugs. "You usually get paired with him."

This is true, but the insinuation bothers Turk. "I don't need Virgil."

"Okay," Danny says. "So what is it?"

Turk opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because it's not Virgil. It's not the job. It's nothing about what's happening here and now.

It's about what's happening back in Utah. It's about Davis getting a new partner and someone finishing up his cases. It's about the badge he had to give back and the job that made him happy. It's about wondering if he was just fooling himself thinking he could be a cop or if he's fooling himself now for thinking he can walk away.

He shuts his mouth, swallows. "I do miss Virgil," he says.

Danny smiles again. "He'll be home soon," he assures him. "We should be done with this in no time."

Turk manages a small smile. "I hope so."

-o-

Rusty is eating breakfast and Turk's pulled the opening shift at the restaurant. He's been playing his part for nearly two weeks now, and the fact that he's being tailed is beginning to annoy him.

But today's the big day.

"You got the dumplings?" Rusty asks.

Turk sighs. "Yes, I have the dumplings."

Rusty frowns a little. "Something wrong?"

There's a lot wrong. Turk's playing a damn waiter, for one thing. But, also: "I'm going to give some unsuspecting schmuck food poisoning."

"It's not poisonous," Rusty assures him.

"It's just not cool." And it qualifies as assault, if Turk remembers his police code well enough.

"He's getting 10 mill," Rusty reminds him.

"Personal comfort has no price tag."

"You think he needs more?" Rusty asks.

"Eleven," Turk suggests, remembering what Saul said. "At least."

Rusty takes a bite, chews, swallows. He nods. "We can do that."

Turk tries to think about that, all that money, when he switches out the dumplings. That much money will change this guy's life.

Although, Turk wonders briefly, why it hasn't changed his.

-o-

The thing is, he's a good waiter. Punctual and polite. He gets good tips, some of the best in the entire hotel, not that Turk's keeping track.

But it's hard to enjoy. Not just because it's a con, and it's short term, so he know he can't really like it. Not just because he still thinks about being a cop and how the precinct is doing without him back in Utah.

But because it's a con on a guy who doesn't deserve it. They've cased the reviewer well enough, and he's well liked and simple. For all the glitz of his job, he's just a guy who likes kicking back with his family on weekends and who will laugh at jokes just to be polite. He's good natured and pleasant and he reminds Turk of Davis.

He doesn't want to put this guy through this sort of stuff, but it's ends and means. As a cop, the means come first and the end result hopefully follows, but on this job, it's all about the ends by any means necessary. And they'll sacrifice a lot - money, comfort, and an innocent guy just doing his job - to get there.

In the grand scheme of things, Turk knows that this guy will be fine, even with the tainted dumplings Turk serves him. He knows that he'll make 10 mill off the ordeal and that Reuben will be vindicated and Bank will get what's coming to him. It's still justice, even in a unique microcosm of the world.

But when the guy leaves a 20 percent tip and Turk thanks him for stopping in, he still feels like crap and he's not even the one who had to eat the dumplings.

-o-

At first, the fact that he's getting shipped to Mexico annoys him. For one, he's got a job, and they're going to think he quit without giving notice. That probably shouldn't bother him, but it actually sort of does.

Second, why does everyone think he can make his brother do anything? True, Turk's been Virgil's brother all of his life, but the thing with brothers is that proximity breeds equal parts ridiculousness and contempt, and Virgil's more likely to listen to anyone else when he's got his mind decided on something.

So if Virgil wants to start a revolution, he's certainly going to follow through if Turk asks him not to. Because if there's a way to make Virgil do anything, it's to have Turk want the opposite.

On the plane ride down, Turk wonders why he hasn't realized this before, because it suddenly seems like powerful leverage.

Still, Virgil has picked a crazy time to make a stand for something, but when Turk gets down there and talks to his brother face to face, he understands.

"It's just wrong," Virgil says. "These guys - they do an honest day's work. They follow the rules. They give everything they have. They risk their lives, and they deserve credit for that."

And damn it, that's a story Turk knows.

Virgil looks at him, pleadingly. "You get it, don't you?"

Turk gets that this is a job and this is about Reuben. But he also gets the power of change, the sacrifice of the working man. He knows what it's like to earn something and to be rewarded. It's the thing inside him that has changed everything, and the thought of denying such a chance to someone else is almost more than he can handle.

Because computer geeks in a cubicle, cops walking a beat, or factory workers in Mexico - these people matter, not just to some master plan, but to the world.

Damn it.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "What do we have to do?"

Virgil's eyes brighten. "I was thinking something small, just to make a point."

"Small, huh?" Turk asks.

Virgil nods.

Turk snorts. "Okay, then. Let's start small." He stops, looks at his brother. "You do know your mustache looks hideous, don't you?"

Virgil glares. "I think we have bigger concerns."

"Have you looked at yourself lately?" Turk asks with a shrug. "Because that's pretty big."

"Shut up," Virgil replies.

"What?" Turk asks. "I can't hear you through all that hair on your face."

"Have you looked at the poor excuse for facial hair on your face?" Virgil asks.

Turk's hands go up to his manicured goatee. As a cop, this is one thing he's missed. And if it helps distinguish him from Danny Williams just in case, even better. "It's creative."

"For someone living in a trailer park, maybe."

"You look like a hillbilly," Turk fires back.

"White trash!"

As a cop, Turk might have exhibited some self-control. He's not a cop anymore. He has no moral code to worry about as he goes after his brother.

In ten minutes, Turk, Virgil, Turk's goatee, and Virgil's mustache are ready to start planning again.

-o-

In Turk's defense, he doesn't bring the alcohol or the lighters. But when such items appear and the barricade seems unbreachable, Turk is nothing if not resourceful.

After all, Danny wants them to finish the job, and that's exactly what Turk intends to do as he flings another flaming bottle over the fence.

-o-

Coming back to the States should be a relief. But it's a long drive, and Virgil's singing voice is horrible, even in Spanish.

Turk turns off the radio.

Virgil protests. "What'd you do that for?"

"You sound terrible."

"No, I don't."

"You sound worse than your mustache looks."

"I sound fine."

"But your mustache does look horrible."

"I look fine and sound fine."

"You sound like a dying whale."

"I was in the church choir back near the factory."

"They probably only let you in because they felt sorry for you."

Virgil glowers. "You know, you were nicer as a cop."

"Yeah, well, you were less annoying as a computer programmer."

"Jerk."

"Moron."

In a few miles, Virgil turns the radio back on and it's almost a welcome relief.

At least until he starts singing again.

-o-

When they get back, they have to move quickly. Between making sure the dice get to their proper spots and evicting the poor reviewer from his room, it's go-go-go, but Virgil takes the time to stop off in the bathroom.

"I need to shave!" he insists.

Turk frowns. The mustache is hideous, but this hardly seems like the time. "Now?"

"I don't know when I'll get another chance," Virgil says.

"Maybe when this is over," Turk suggests sarcastically.

"When this is over, I'm heading straight home and seeing my wife," he says.

Turk rolls his eyes. "So this is for her?"

Virgil shrugs. "She's okay with me doing this job, but she'll never be okay with the mustache," he says.

Turk sighs, rolls his eyes again. "Okay, make it quick," he says.

Virgil grins. "I'll just need five minutes."

Turk waits in the hallway, counting ceiling tiles. This isn't time they really have to waste, but he understands that Virgil has something to go home to.

Turk fingers his own goatee and thinks he could take the time, too, but then again, he doesn't really see the point.

-o-

Turk doesn't fit this job.

He puts the overalls on backward and he can't seem to get along with Virgil, no matter how hard he tries. Because he does feel guilty about mocking his singing voice, but only for a while because Virgil really can be a self-satisfied dick.

When they need someone to hack the system, Turk volunteers. He wants to feel useful.

No one believes him.

Virgil does it instead, probably better than Turk would, and he tries not to let it show but it really does bother him. It's crazy, but right then he misses Davis and Joseph Vincent and the entire department back in Salt Lake.

Then his face pops up, known associate of Livingston Dell, and Turk sees himself as the world knows him. A name in a database, marked and flagged. Virgil can change the features and it doesn't matter, because that's who Turk is.

This is who Turk is.

As much as he hates this part of the gig, he's glad that being underground while starting an earthquake gives him an excuse to feel apprehensive, at least as far as the rest of the team is concerned.

-o-

It takes two earthquakes, thirteen con men, a helicopter, and a guy inside the gaming commission, but they pull it off. Livingston's poor rigging almost gets them caught and Virgil's hack job during Basher's con barely pulls them through by the seat of their pants, but they pull it off.

Standing underground, feeling the earth shake, Turk can't help but think at how easily it might go wrong.

If Bank goes against code and calls the cops. If their inside man on the floor gets a conscience at the last minute. If Linus can't seduce the intoxicated general manager. If Benedict manages to really screw them again.

Turk doesn't just think of what can go wrong, he thinks of all the laws they're breaking.

Robbery's just at the top of the list. Conspiracy, extortion, trespassing. Probably even identity theft and illegally crossing the border. If they get caught, the cops who book them will be able to rake them all over the coals and probably get a mountain load of paperwork for their troubles.

For some reason, this bothers Turk, even when they all just walk away.

Because that's what they do: they finish the job and they walk away.

Turk's standing at the fountain, and the team is spread out down the line. They all made sacrifices to be here; Turk knows this. Each of them had to make this decision, and down the line, Turk knows all of them would do it again. But he wonders, as they peel away, one by one, where they're going to next.

If Saul will ever retire, if Yen will rejoin the circus. If Frank will go back to a nail salon, if Basher will keep working small jobs just to blow things up. If Livingston will find a job that doesn't make him sweat, if Linus will branch out on his own. If Reuben will start his casino, if Virgil will go back to Sarah and his day job. If Rusty will ever find the con to put him over the top, if Danny will ever find a reason to walk away.

Turk doesn't know, watching the fireworks light up the sky. Because this is the end of a job and it's time to walk away, but Turk doesn't know where to go.

He thinks he might know where he wants to go, but he doesn't know if he can.

He just doesn't know.

-o-

They go home.

Virgil goes back to his wife, and Turk doesn't see him for nearly three days. He calls once, but no one answers, and Turk sort of gets the hint. This has been a long job, and Sarah really does have the patience of a saint to let him go.

Turk goes home to his apartment. It's just as drab as he remembers. There are some messages on his phone, a few from the guys at the station.

He doesn't call them back.

He sits, watches TV, surfs the web. He thinks about going out to his garage, but he can't find the motivation. He could spend some of the cash, but he had Danny invest it again, and if he didn't know where it was stashed before, he's pretty sure it's going to be harder to find now.

Besides, he's not sure he wants to pick up the phone. And he wouldn't know what to buy anyway. The things he really wants aren't the kind of things with price tags.

After a month, things are a lot like they used to be. He eats at Virgil's most nights and sleeps on his couch until noon. After dinner one night, they're sitting on the couch, and Virgil says, "I need a new job."

Turk snorts. "No crap," he says. "You really think they'd let you take a six month hiatus?"

Virgil fidgets a little. "I have some leads on some possibilities," he says. He glances at Turk. "In Arizona."

Turk makes a face. "You're moving?"

Virgil looks at his hands. "I've been thinking about it."

"Why?" he asks.

Virgil shrugs. "A fresh start."

"With the cut from this job, you don't even need a job," Turk points out.

"It's too dangerous." "What's the point of the money if you don't use it?"

"What's the point of the money if we're dead?"

Turk blinks hard. "Danny said not to worry."

"Danny's not God," Virgil says back, his voice sharp.

"So, what, you think moving to Arizona will keep you safe?"

"No, but I think starting over will."

Turk shakes his head. "What do you mean, starting over?"

Virgil sighs, his anger deflating. "I've got to get out of this business. I know why we did this job, but I've got to get out."

It's still not making sense. "You're out," Turk says. "You make the choice."

"But I'm still implicated in a long string of crimes," Virgil says. "After this job, there are more flags on my record than ever."

"They haven't pinned you with anything," Turk says.

"How long do you think Virgil Malloy is really going to be able to fly under the radar?"

"Well, then you're screwed," Turk says. "Because you're Virgil Malloy until you die."

"Exactly," Virgil says.

"Exactly?"

"Virgil Malloy needs to die," his brother says definitely.

Turk blinks. Once, twice. "Excuse me?"

"Virgil Malloy needs to die," he says again. "And everything he did can be buried with his name."

Now Turk is gaping. His brother has always had ridiculous ideas - most of which defied any sense that Turk ever had of reality - but this one...this one really takes the cake. "You want to kill yourself?"

Virgil shakes his head, brow creased in annoyance. "Just enough so the law thinks I'm dead," he explains. "Then Sarah and I-we can start over. Get a new place, a new house, a new job. And we'll be safe."

Turk stares. He just stares. "What about Mom, Dad? Sarah's family?"

Virgil swallows hard. "It's the only choice."

"They'll think you're dead," Turk reminds him.

"It's the only way."

Turk gapes for another moment, breathing hard. "Even if you are okay with burning everyone in your life, how the hell are you going to do it?"

"Danny," Virgil says. "Danny can pull it off."

"You're going to ask Danny to stage your death?"

"He can do it."

"I'm sure he can," Turk agrees, because Danny Ocean is a little like God. He shakes his head. "But why? Why now? After all the jobs?"

Virgil takes a breath, blows it out. "We're having a baby."

Turk stares for a minute longer.

Then he blinks.

Finally, he swears.

Virgil smiles, a little stupidly. "You're going to be an uncle."

-o-

When Turk remembers how to speak again, he asks, "You knocked her up? You've only been home a month!"

"She missed me."

"I guess so!" Turk breathes again, shaking his head. "A baby. Really?"

Virgil nods, and he's got this glassy-eyed look of dumb excitement. "A baby."

"In Arizona?"

"It doesn't matter where," Virgil says. "Just - anywhere. Someplace new. Safe. It's not just about me anymore."

"You know, if you do this, you really have to do this," Turk says, reiterating the point. "You can't let the family know. Not even Mom and Dad."

"I know," Virgil says quickly.

"You're their golden boy," Turk reminds them.

Virgil nods, resolutely. "I know, but it's the only way."

Turk swears again. "A baby."

"I know."

Turk looks at his brother, who is trying not to smile. Turk can't help it - he grins. "You're such a moron," he says, swatting at his brother.

"I am not," Virgil says, ducking away.

"Are," Turk says again. "But congratulations anyway. Moron."

"Am not," Virgil insists. "And thanks."

-o-

Virgil doesn't ask him to leave, but Turk doesn't feel like he should stay. Virgil's made a decision now, a choice about family, and while Turk understands that, he also knows what it means. Virgil's choosing one family over everything else.

Even him.

Virgil Malloy will die, and Turk's going to be stuck in Salt Lake City with nothing. He has money from this job, and he'll have to call Danny Ocean to get it out again, but he's not sure what for.

He's just knows that the days are long and empty, and it's only going to get worse.

-o-

When Virgil visits one night, Turk knows it's going to be one of those conversations.

"You're not going to get sappy on me, are you?" Turk asks accusingly as they sit on Turk's lopsided couch.

Virgil makes a face. "What? No."

Turk isn't so sure.

"I just came by to tell you something."

"It's called a phone."

"I wanted to tell you this in person."

Turk rolls his eyes. "So it is sappy!"

"No, it's not sappy," Virgil says. "I mean. It's just-"

"If you cry, so help me, I will throw you out," Turk threatens.

"When I do this," Virgil says finally. "We can't be in contact."

"Yeah, I got that much," Turk says, hoping that if he focuses on how annoyed he is, it won't bother him as much.

"But I think we should try," Virgil continues, and his voice hinges, a little uncertain. It's not like his brother, to hesitate or doubt.

"We should try?" Turk repeats.

"Just once a year," Virgil says. "And have a line for emergencies."

Virgil is trying to keep this cool, but Turk can hear the longing behind it. Somehow, it actually surprises Turk to think his brother might actually miss him.

It's just as surprising to admit that he's going to miss Virgil, too. Because Virgil is his brother, and they've spent a lifetime together. If Virgil has taught him anything that matters, it's that love can be expressed in many ways, even in bickering.

Especially in bickering.

And Turk will never forget that.

And he'll never forget this.

That his brother will die to everyone and everything but leave one out - Turk.

Turk draws a breath. "Well, if that's what you need."

Virgil snorts. "I just need to know you don't completely self-destruct without me."

Turk waves his arms. "I'm going to be just fine."

"Yeah? What are you going to do?"

Turk shrugs. "Anything. Maybe buy a new car. Do it up right."

"Have you even been to the garage since we got back?"

"That's not important."

"So you're going to do nothing."

"What does it matter to you?" Turk says accusingly.

"You going to work some more jobs?" Virgil asks.

Turk shrugs. "Maybe."

For a second, Virgil simply nods. "You know," he says, hesitating just slightly. "You could go back to being a cop."

Turk rolls his eyes. "If you think your record might be a problem in programming, imagine it in law enforcement."

"You already have a working alias."

"And I just got pinged by the FBI on this case," Turk reminds him. "It's too risky."

Virgil shrugs. "Not if Turk Malloy dies. Starts new in another city. I bet you could do it."

It's funny, because Turk hasn't thought of that.

In all his free time, in all his moping, he really hasn't thought of that.

He looks at his brother.

Virgil shrugs.

Turk swears. Another bet. Another damn bet that he doesn't have to take, but doesn't think he can let go of.

Virgil shrugs again. "It made you happy," he says. "I'm just saying"

Virgil's just saying and Turk's just thinking about why he hadn't thought of that earlier.

-o-

Virgil goes home to his wife, and Turk stays up, staring at the ceiling.

The thing is, he can work jobs until he's as rich as Reuben, but it's not going to change anything. Virgil will still be gone, and he needs something to fill all the time from one year to the next.

He needs something.

Something he's not going to find working the con. Something he found in the police station. Something Turk Malloy has never had, but Danny Williams always did.

The con has taught him this: identity is fleeting and easy to change. Happiness, though - real contentment - that's the kind of thing you can work for all your life and never find. It's why Virgil is walking away. It's why Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan never will.

This seems like it should be a hard decision, and Turk is up all night thinking about it. But when morning comes, he goes to the bathroom and shaves his goatee. When he's done, he picks up his phone and dials Danny Ocean's number and doesn't have to think anymore.

-o-

Danny is happy to meet him. He suggests a restaurant in Salt Lake City, nicer than Turk's ever been to. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks after Turk eats his burger.

Turk shrugs and breathes out hard, meeting Danny's eyes. He sits back in his chair; that's the question he's been asking himself all week. "I'm good at it."

"You're good at a lot of things," Danny reminds him.

Turk takes another breath and looks away. "This is different."

"And it's what you want?"

That's the silver bullet and Turk knows it. Because this isn't just about the con and it's not just about getting by. Turk has a lot of options, even some he's never let himself think about just yet. He could live his life as a criminal and get by pretty well, but if this last con has taught him anything, it's that all of it can't make him happy.

There's a certain thrill in the moment, but there's no future. He respects the hell out of Danny Ocean and he is downright amazed at everything Saul and Reuben have accomplished in their lives, but when he thinks about what he wants, when he thinks about where he wants to be, that's not what he sees.

He's not even sure what he sees, but he knows he doesn't see that. Living from job to job, months of flying under the radar with moments of excitement. Turk wants more than moments.

Turk wants a life.

This is the only life he knows that's actually worth fighting for. Even if that means dying.

He looks at Danny, this time with certainty. He nods. "Yeah, it's what I want."

Danny nods. There is no disappointment, no surprise. "Then consider it done."

-o-

Virgil and Sarah Malloy die in a house fire. The cops call it a gas leak, and they never had a chance. There wasn't anything left to salvage and just enough DNA to make the identifications.

Turk's entire family shows up for the funeral, and there's a lot of crying. Turk sits, silent and stoic through it all, because he knows this is supposed to be sad, but the truth is, he knows his brother has finally gotten out.

He loves his family in the way that everyone loves their family, but as he mingles with them at the wake, he realizes how little these people know about him. Even his parents, who fuss over his lack of decorum and frown at his lack of initiative, seem to only know Virgil as their pleasantly quirky kid - the one who didn't stress them out.

And it's funny, because he sees them all as they are. His father's a two-bit conman who doubled as an entrepreneur with less than savory business investments. Above board or not, his old man never had the stamina to make it big, blowing through money and business partners like most men blew through cheap tennis shoes.

His mother, while she didn't get her hands dirty as often, certainly was not innocent considering how thoroughly she advised and critiqued their father. Technically, she was a housewife, but with her hours at home, she spent more time worrying about how to look the part than actually playing it.

His entire family, from uncles to cousins to aunts, are poor excuses for criminals, and as Turk sits at the funeral, he tries to add up the jail time the Malloy family has served collectively and it gets to be bigger than he can manage.

His parents board a plane back to Florida, and his mother's eyes are still red-rimmed. She puts a hand on Turk's cheek and shakes her head. "You're all that's left," she says.

For a second, Turk's heart stutters.

Then she frowns, pulling her hand away and wiping her eyes. "God help us all."

Turk watches them go and they don't look back. It's not much of a goodbye, and somehow Turk knows he made the right choice.

-o-

It makes the paper: a small blurb, on the fourth page. There's a car fire in a garage outside Salt Lake City. There's not much left, but police find enough DNA to say that Turk Malloy, age 26, died in the flames.

There's a small service, but the victim didn't have much left in terms of surviving family, especially since his brother, Virgil, died not a month earlier. His grieving parents had no comment from their retirement community in Florida.

Their uncle is quoted as saying, "It's such a tragedy, but I can't say we're surprised. Where one of them went, the other wasn't far behind. Same way, too. Seems right."

Turk is buried next to his brother, and across the country, there's a dozen people who smile at the news.

-o-

It's weird being dead, and it's only after the news breaks that he realizes he can't go home. Fortunately, his apartment was crappy and nothing in there meant that much to him. It sucks to leave the cars behind, but most of them fried in the fire Danny rigged anyway, and Turk supposes it's a small price to pay for a second chance.

Or a second second chance.

For a week, Turk rents a motel room and drinks a lot, trying to make himself believe that he actually went through with it. It's lonely without Virgil, but since they're both starting new, hanging out with him just can't happen. They've agreed no contact, but picked one date a year to meet, just because.

Unfortunately, that date is a year away, and Turk Malloy is dead, and it suddenly occurs to him how permanent that is.

He's given up a lot of this. All his contacts, all his would-be friends. He's given up fame and excitement and notoriety. He's giving up Utah and his family and everything.

It's not much, but with it gone, Turk misses it more than he thought he would. Because it was his life. It wasn't much of one, but somehow he can't stop himself from mourning, even if it was his choice.

There's no pressure, though. Danny's arranged his finances so his money is safe, but he still has a monthly stipend, at least until he gets back on his feet.

Because Turk is supposed to get back on his feet.

But he's dead, so he figures it's okay if it takes him a while. After all, anyone who might have cared either thinks he's six feet under ground or knows better than to contact him now in this delicate state of transition.

After a week, he finds his resume in a duffel bag. It's attached to a few letters of recommendation that Joseph Vincent and Davis sent along when he resigned, just in case.

He remembers that conversation with Danny and the certainty of his answer: this is what he wants.

Working in Utah is too dangerous. Hell, the entire southwest is probably a no-go. But if Turk Malloy is dead, Danny Williams can finally live, and that's not a reason to mourn. It's a reason to celebrate.

Turk stops drinking and he gets himself in order. He starts scanning the internet for new positions. He finds one that looks promising in Newark, New Jersey.

It takes him a day to get his application together. When he sends it off, he feels more alive than he has in his entire life.

-o-

When they ask him for an interview, Turk says he can be there in two days. He doesn't have much to pack, and when he steps on the plane, he looks back at Utah, one last time.

When he gets off on the other side of the country, the air smells rank and the air is cold, and Turk has to bundle himself up as he gets a rental car and goes to the motel.

There's not much that's pretty about Newark, with its dirty streets and crammed blocks, but no place has ever felt more like home.

-o-

During the interview, Turk can't stop talking. Every question sparks excitement in him, and all he wants to do is tell these people how much he wants to be here. When they ask him about his reasons for being a cop, there's not even a hesitation.

"It makes a difference. Not always a big one, but even little differences count. I want to be a cop for the little differences, day in and day out. No matter what it takes."

Two days later, they ask how soon he can start.

-o-

The Newark PD is different from Salt Lake. The place is bigger, a little dirtier. There's a frenetic pitch to the action, and the offices are smaller, with Victorian stylings on the entryway and desks crammed into every nook and cranny. It's easy to get lost there, and there's an anonymity in that that is both reassuring and unnerving all at once.

The overall procedures are a little different, too, and Turk can already see that the filing system in Newark is a mess. The floor sergeant, some guy named Boothby, is a far cry from the congenial grandpa back in Salt Lake, and he talks in a heavy accent when Turk reports for duty his first day.

"So you're the new guy?" Boothby asks, tapping his pen on the desk.

Turk smiles. "I'm the new guy."

Boothby smirks a little. "You sound like the new guy," he says. "Not from here?"

Turk frowns now. "What makes you say that?"

"Your accent, it's all wrong," Boothby says.

"Just transferred out of Salt Lake."

At that, Boothby snorts. "Yeah, well, welcome to Jersey, kid," he says. "And trust me when I say good luck, because you're going to need it."

-o-

Boothby points him in the direction of his desk, but doesn't offer much beyond that. Turk finds it, but can't be sure he's got the right one. It's still covered with papers, some of which look recent, and he's looking around to figure out if he's in the right spot, when another cop passes by.

He stops at the desk across from Turk's and does a double take. "You Williams?"

Turk looks up. "What? Yeah?"

The cop is a few years older than Turk, evidence by the speckles of gray around his temples. He could have a baby face, with boyish features, but his chin is covered with day-old scruff. His brown hair is tousled, and his brown eyes are critical as he appraises Turk. Then he swears. "They told me you had experience."

Turk frowns. "Over a year down in Salt Lake."

The cop's eyebrows go up. "Utah?"

Turk nods.

The cop snickers. "I'm sure you did good work back in Utah," he says. "But a few weeks here, and we'll see what kind of cop you really are."

-o-

His name is Jason Donnelly, and he's been on the force for seven years. He comes from a family of cops, and he's got a sister and a brother on the force, both working different beats throughout the city. His uncle is a precinct captain and his father works in upper management.

Jason's talkative, but not big into helping Turk connect the dots. Turk eventually figures out that, yes, it's his desk, and that the pile of crap on it is up to him to sort. Jason doesn't seem to know much about paperwork, and Turk spends his first week trailing after his partner, trying to make sure it all gets done and filed on time.

For all this neglect, however, it's pretty clear that Jason's not a bad cop. He's clever and resourceful, and if he has a propensity for ignoring the rules, Turk figures he's there to make sure they have their bases covered. More than once, Turk is grateful for the orderly approach that Davis taught him back in Salt Lake, because keeping up with Jason is controlled chaos.

They're always working five cases at once, and Jason has more contacts than even Danny Ocean. But for the messy investigative tactics, Jason's actually pretty damn good, with instincts that pay off, even if their notes are scrawled on bar napkins and take-out fliers.

After two weeks in, Turk is exhausted keeping up. One night after work, he's settled down to finish their paperwork when Jason stops and gives him a look. "You're really going to do that now?"

"It has to get done," Turk says, a little helplessly.

Jason rolls his eyes. "You going for a promotion already? You've only been here two weeks."

"I just-"

Jason shakes his head. "Just get up."

Turk blinks. "What?"

Jason looks at him, emphatic. "Get up."

"But, I-"

"You want to stay a newbie forever or do you want to earn your stripes, Utah?"

Turk looks at his paperwork. Looks back at Jason.

He swallows and shrugs a little. "Um. Okay."

Jason grins, full throttled and bright-eyed. "Meet me out front in five."

Turk tables his paperwork, jiggling his knee for a moment as he watches Jason leave. With a breath, he remembers that Turk Malloy is dead and that this is what he left for, and he gets up and follows.

-o-

Jason takes him out to get drunk.

It's a bar Turk doesn't know, which isn't surprising since he hasn't been out much since he got to New Jersey. But Jason seems right at home, and Turk recognizes a handful of other guys from the precinct. Jason sidles them up to the bar and nods to the barkeep, who produces two bottles of beer.

Jason picks his up and tips it against Turk's. "Way better than paperwork, huh?" he asks wryly as he takes a drink.

Turk picks his up, eyeing his partner uncertainly. "The paperwork has to be done."

Jason shrugs disarmingly. "My paperwork always gets done."

"Because you pile it on my desk until I finally finish it," Turk shoots back.

Jason grins and he looks a little like a school boy. "You could always pile it right back," he says. He quirks an eyebrow. "Did you ever think of that?"

The fact is, no, Turk hasn't thought of that. His brow furrows and he takes a drink.

Jason laughs, slapping Turk on the shoulder. "You're pretty by the book, aren't you?" he asks.

"I do what needs to be done," Turk says defensively.

Jason holds up a hand. "That's not a criticism, man," he says. "Just an observation."

Turk bristles a little, but takes a drink. He's used to some characters, given his previous line of work, but Jason is a breed all his own. Brash and impulsive; he's fighting the good fight but with far less finesse than nearly any criminal Turk's ever worked with.

"You learn police work by the numbers at the academy," Jason says. "And that crap's important, it is, because if we don't cover our asses, it's the bad guys who get away. I know that, and you should never forget it." Jason pauses, leaning forward a little. His eyes are intense as he looks at Turk. "But after you learn to paint by numbers, you've got to learn the art of improvisation. Make police work more than a job. Make it a life."

Jason sounds like he's full of crap, but there's still something about it that seems right. That seems appealing. Not that Turk wants to be Jason, but he's got a grave back in Utah, so he's more than a little interested in starting to live again.

Finally, he nods. "That's what I'm going for," he says.

Jason's grin widens and he lifts his beer again. "Then maybe there's hope for us yet, partner," he says, before downing another long swallow.

-o-

It's about finding the rhythm. Turk's always been something of a chameleon, which is why he's good on a con. Once you figure out the patterns and the nuances of the environment, you have to fit yourself seamlessly inside. When he's on the con, this is the art of imitation and trickery. In New Jersey, it's a give and take with himself and the world around him.

He picks up the lingo pretty quickly, and understands the dynamics in the precinct. He knows who comes early and who stays late, and gauges his own decisions with what feels right. He's always punctual but is never the last to leave, and while Jason jokes his way through an interview, Turk sits back and watches for cues to see if someone is lying or telling the truth.

Turk learns to bring Boothby coffee if he wants a favor and masters the art of the file room within weeks. He knows to let Jason start the paperwork and to fill in the blanks when his partner is finished, and if Turk bitches about that, Jason grins and keeps on doing it.

Because he doesn't quite mean it, because it's not quite bad. It's balance. It's strengths and weaknesses and a complementary set. Jason knows to go left and Turk knows to go right, and when it's over, they're both good for a drink at the bar before heading home. Jason introduces him to the Mets and Turk shows him the power of NASCAR, and Turk thinks this is finally making sense.

It's different, this improvisation. Turk's so used to following a plan that there's something oddly liberating even in the dullest details of his life. Because it is a life, unique and his own, and when he wakes up in the morning, it's his to do with as he pleases.

This is what was missing on the Bank job. This is what was missing in Utah. Turk sits at his desk and laughs with Jason and thinks, this.

-o-

It's good. He cracks jokes with Jason in the squad car and watches games with the guys on weekends at the bar. It feels good, and most of the time, there's nothing more that Turk wants.

Most of the time, he's got enough paperwork to do and enough cases to think about, that he doesn't have to think about much else. Usually, one of the guys is doing something to break up his downtime from complete monotony.

Most of the time. Usually.

But if Turk knows anything, he knows that sometimes it's the bets placed against the odds that count.

So even when it's rare, the nights he can't sleep really do count for something. He stares into the darkness and remembers his brother, remembers Ocean's crew. He remembers Salt Lake and Davis and his little apartment. These are things he misses but doesn't quite want to go back to. Turk's ready to move ahead, this is all a lingering tickle of who he once was.

Who he really is.

Turk can change his name and he can move across the country, but sometimes it still feels like a farce. A con. A silly wager against his brother.

He wonders if he'll ever stop feeling that way as the night slips to day.

-o-

Turk needs a hobby.

He figures this has always been true, and quite possibly what his mother was trying to tell him all those years when she tried to convince him to join clubs and attend camps as a child. But Turk's never been overly inclined to such things, and he always figured that tormenting his brother was really the only hobby he needed. When that wasn't enough, he was decent with cars, although he much preferred driving them to anything else.

But his cars are burnt to ashes in Utah and his brother is living on the other side of the country in Scottsdale, Arizona, so Turk's pretty hard up on things to do in his free time.

For a while, Turk tries watching TV, but his reception is crappy and he doesn't want to spring for cable. Now that he's settled, he's stopped getting his stipend from the last gig in Vegas, and a cop's salary really doesn't go very far in New Jersey. He considers again, briefly, cashing out some of the bounty from the Bank job, but it seems silly to call Danny for that. It doesn't help that Turk can't shake the feeling that someday he'll need it.

There's not much to do in his apartment, considering it's a crappy one-bedroom that makes his old place look like the Ritz. He considers it a luxury that he blew a few grand on new furniture, cheap but not previously owned, but even with a comfortable couch and a dining room set that isn't falling apart, Turk really doesn't have much to do.

For a moment, he considers trying to do something conventional.

But he doesn't know anything conventional.

Jason talks about a basketball league at the Y, but Turk's small enough to know better. Gym class was an exercise in anger management growing up, and if he was always picked last for basketball, he was always first on the list for football, because tackles born of rage could do more than ones relying on size any day.

Without much to watch on TV and nothing to find on the internet, Turk turns to the only other things in his apartment.

Books.

He's not a reader by any stretch of the imagination, but boredom does strange things to a man. He's got a handful of police manuals on hand, and one night when he starts reading, it's just to pass the time.

In a week, he's read them all, and has started his second go around.

In another week, he's almost got whole sections memorized.

Funny, if he'd known studying was so easy, he might have done better in school.

When he's done with those, he finds more at work, and just keeps going. When he starts quoting police procedure in finite detail to Jason on the job, his partner gives him a look and says, "Man, we've got to get you laid."

Turk opens his mouth, a little too surprised to actually be insulted. "Maybe you need to review the department policy on sexual harassment," he says.

Jason just rolls his eyes.

-o-

It's not even two months in when a bust goes bad. Turk has read every book on police work he can find, and has started branching out into self-help books and even the occasional cookbook. But with all that growing reservoir of vast knowledge, none of it seems to help him when it counts.

There's a perp with a gun and an accomplice with two guns and just when they think it's all under control, a third perp comes out of the woodwork and starts firing.

Jason is busy cuffing one of the first suspects, so he's a sitting duck. Turk's instincts are to protect himself at all costs, which is how he's survived and stayed out of jail this long, but Danny's instincts are to protect his partner.

At all costs.

He pulls his gun and fires, but he doesn't have perfect aim and when all the crap is hitting the fan, sometimes it takes a little more than luck and a prayer.

Standing in front of Jason isn't something he thinks about, but it comes naturally, and he has the satisfaction of seeing the assailant go down and go down hard.

He turns to smile at Jason, to say, is that how you do it in Jersey? but Jason's staring at him, mouth open, eyes wide.

And then Turk feels the pain.

It takes him out at the knees and doubles him over. As he falls to the ground, he looks down, hands on his chest coming away with blood. His vest is ripped where the bullet went in, and Turk wonders why the department makes them standard procedure if that's all the better they work.

Things get hazy and when he blinks, he's on his back. Jason's face is above him, and his shaking hands are pressed into his torso. "Just hold on," he says. "Damn it, Danny, just hold on."

Turk knows never to risk a con, not even for the fear of death, but that's really easier said than done when he's bleeding out on the floor.

He thinks of his apartment back in Utah. He thinks of Virgil and his wife and his nine to five job. He thinks of Danny Ocean asking if he wants a job, he thinks of Rusty saying they need him, he's the best there is for that kind of thing.

He thinks.

Of what he traded to be here, of what he gave up to prove to Virgil that he could.

He thinks, he thinks, he thinks.

His mouth goes dry and his vision tunnels and everything hurts before it all just goes black.

-o-

Turk wakes up in a hospital. It's clean and generic, and he's hooked up to wires and stuff he doesn't recognize. Everything feels foggy, like he's floating in a haze, but as he looks around, he sees Jason crashed in the chair by his bed.

And not just Jason, but an older woman he doesn't recognize and Sergeant Boothby from the precinct.

This is weird, Turk thinks. He wonders if it was like this for Reuben, back in Vegas. Turk's not sure if he expected waking up alone or if he just didn't expect to wake up at all.

Turk knows what happened, but doesn't really want to. He doesn't want to think about it, and he doesn't want to think about Jason, or Boothby, or the woman. And if he doesn't want to think about them, he doesn't want to think about the perp who did this to him, and when he slips back into unconsciousness, he can still hear Virgil's voice:  
 __  
I bet you can't hold a real job.  
  
This is the first time Turk's wondered - really wondered - not if Virgil was right, but if Turk really should have proved him wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

When Reuben was in the hospital, it freaked him out. Listening to the doctor delineate everything that was wrong with Reuben - it had been overwhelming - and being so freaked out had just pissed Turk off.

Now that he's in the hospital, Turk's in too much pain to be really freaked out, but that doesn't stop him from being pissed off.

"The bullet did extensive damage to your lung, especially since it splintered one of your ribs on the way in," the doctor explains. "We had to do a significant amount of repair and we've been monitoring you closely for a buildup of fluids in your lungs."

This is why Turk's chest feels like it's been ripped open and played with. Because it has, and it sucks as much in a hospital as Turk thinks it might in any other circumstance.

"One of the fragments from your rib perforated one of the arteries near your heart, so we had to infuse you with several units of blood," the doctor continues easily, as if nearly bleeding to death isn't something to worry about. "We did lose your pulse for a while during the procedure, but it was a short period of time."

Because being dead is okay as long as you're not dead too long.

"We kept you sedated so your lungs could recover," the doctor offers, as if this tidbit is somehow supposed to be taken as a mercy. "Many patients find the ventilator distressing."

Turk knows why. Having a tube shoved down your throat sounds awful, and given the raw state of his throat even days after its removal is pretty crappy, too.

The doctor smiles. "We were able to save your spleen, though."

As if Turk's spleen should somehow make him feel better about the fact that he's been peeing in a bag for a week and can't sit up without wanting to curl up and cry like a little girl.

The doctor nods, proud. "All in all, I think you're a very lucky man," he says.

Turk's put up with a lot of crap. He's put up with the not-quite-solid diet they've got him on, if only because crapping in a bag sounds less appealing than pissing in one. He's put up with the open backed gowns, because, okay, when it hurts to breathe, the notion of removing his clothes every time some nurse or doctor wants to cop a feel just sounds masochistic. And he's even put up with the prodding and the poking and the gaggle of interns that come buy for a show when the doctor checks his wound.

(Though he's tempted, really tempted, to kick the ass of the redheaded intern who not-so-helpfully suggested that Turk's response to pain was heightened due to his inactivity because some studies have suggested an inaccurate portrayal of pain when in the hospital and what the hell?)

And Turk's put up with the boring chitchat and the pills and the IVs and all of it, because he's never been shot before, so he knows this is not his area of expertise. After pulling jobs with Danny Ocean, he knows that sometimes he has to play his part and play it well, no matter what. For now he's pulled the patient gig, and no matter how much it sucks, there's a reason Turk's not a Danny Ocean or a Rusty Ryan.

But the fact is, he's been shot, and yeah, that matters. It matters and Turk's pissed off and he's tired and this doctor wants to play little miss sunshine while Turk's skin is held together by a few well placed stitches.

"You think I'm lucky?" Turk asks, and he's genuinely curious about this. "What part of this do you think is lucky? The part where you pulled a bullet from my chest? Or maybe the part where I died? Or maybe the part where I'm stuck in this tiny little room and every time I fall asleep, one of your damned lackeys comes in to ask me how I'm feeling today? You want to know how I'm feeling? I feel like crap, because I've been shot and I died and it sucks."

The doctor's face goes blank and he blinks.

This simply infuriates Turk more.

He lifts one hand as best he can. "And you think I'm lucky!"

Five minutes later, the doctor calls in a nurse to give him a sedative, and Turk's still ranting, even as he passes out

-o-

When he comes to again, he feels a little buzzed. This should relax him, but he's still crammed in a hospital bed attached to more strings than Pinocchio.

This time, Jason's there. He's grinning. "Did you really try to tell a nurse to inject herself and threaten to arrest her if she took another step?"

Turk has hazy memories of this. He shrugs. "I think I can make a case," he said. "Battery, at least."

"They have the right to sedate you if it's in your best interest," Jason reminds him.

Turk scoffs. "I was fine," he says.

"They said you got pretty worked up."

"The ranting wasn't a problem for me," Turk argues. "They wanted to sedate me because I was right and they didn't like hearing it."

Jason nods quite seriously. "You may have something there."

"I know I have something there," Turk counters.

Jason's serious face only lasts another second before he grins again. "I would have loved to see you like that."

"Pissed off and hurting?"

"Taking matters into your own hands," Jason says. "You play it kind of safe. This is Jersey. You have to take life by the balls and make it do what you want."

"Everything I did was completely in the name of the law," Turk says indignantly.

Jason composes his expression and nods again with faux control. "Of course," he says. "So when you threatened to use your cath tube to strangle the doctor...?"

"Self defense," Turk says easily. "No court would doubt me."

Jason looks down, laughing. He looks back up and meets Turk's eye. "We may make a Jersey boy out of you yet."

-o-

The thing is, most people say stuff like that, but Jason actually seems to mean it. He visits every day that Turk's in the hospital, once before work and once after, usually with some member of his family in tow. His sister, his brother, his favorite cousin. Even his mother, who Turk recognizes as the woman from before.

And they all act like they know Turk, thanking him every time for all that he's done for Jason. They sneak him cookies and pizza, and make jokes that distract him from the pain he's still in, especially when PT starts.

One night, when Jason comes alone, Turk's in a crappy mood and asks his partner why the hell he keeps coming.

Jason shrugs. "You're my partner."

"I was your partner before and we didn't make social visits every day."

Jason shrugs again, frowning a little. "I just want to make sure you're okay, is all."

"They pulled a bullet out of my chest," Turk reminds him. "How the hell am I supposed to be?"

He expects Jason to snark back, but instead he pales. He looks down, and nods a little. "Yeah, man," he says. "I know."

Turk gets it suddenly. It's like a lightbulb that goes on, just like that, and Turk wonders why he didn't see it before.

Jason's guilty and he's grateful, and Turk's been a selfish son of a bitch about it all. "Jase, come on," Turk says. "I didn't mean it like that."

Jason looks up and shakes his head. "No, I get it," he says. "You're right. I mean. You saved my life, man. I just - have been trying to figure out how to say thank you."

Turk swallows, feeling uncomfortable. But he doesn't shy away from it. He can't. Instead, he offers a half smile. "Well, you just did," Turk says, grinning a little.

Jason laughs. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I did."

-o-

Turk starts to look forward to the visits after that. Really, that's not so hard, considering the rest of his day consists of watching TV and being forced to endure physical pain in the name of recovery. But besides that, Jason is funny. He tells jokes that make Turk laugh, and all of Jason's family is amusing to be around. They've got the best stories, some of which involve Jason going skinny dipping in the neighbor's pool and having the footage from the security cameras played for the entire school.

Jason's mother practically dotes on him, and it's weird. Though, Turk suspects maybe his experience with mothers has been limited. As a child, his own mother had always been quick to criticize and quicker still to turn him outside to get him out of her kitchen, and the most attention she ever gave him was a lecture and a hard thwack on the backside when he got in trouble. As it is, when his parents relocated to Florida, he hadn't missed them much, since hearing about all the ways in which he failed got redundant after so many retellings.

So all things considered, this maternal style of mothering is foreign to him, but Turk'd be stupid if he didn't like the way she handles the doctors to get them to treat him nicer.

They watch TV together, talk about music, and discuss the latest in sports.

One day, when Turk starts complaining about the latest on Days of Our Lives with Jason's sister, Jason rolls his eyes. "Do you really just watch TV all day?"

Turk shrugs. "Not much else I can do."

"What do you do at home?"

"I don't know," Turk admits. "Read?"

Jason snickers and rolls his eyes. "We really, really need to find you a hobby, man."

-o-

The next day, Jason shows up with some books.

Turk can't help it. He smiles, not because he found a hobby, but Turk thinks maybe he found something so much better.

-o-

Recovery gets easier, but there's still something about this. Because Jason and his family - they love Danny Williams, and that's what it says on his ID bracelet, but sometimes Turk still knows.

His body is healing, but he wonders if the rest of him ever really will.

But when he starts thinking that, Jason shows up again, and there's not much time to think about it, and before he knows it, he's being released. His apartment is crowded with cards and a few vases of flowers. His fridge is full of food and dry goods are stacked on the counter.

"Just so you feel at home," Jason says casually as he helps Turk get settled in.

His bed looks suspiciously made and the pile of clothes he left on the floor are picked up and Turk can only hope they're in his closet.

"You serious?" Turk asks, running his finger on the coffee table, surprised by the lack of dust.

Jason pats him congenially on his shoulder. "Completely."

Turk doesn't know if he should feel guilty for conning this guy or good that he's pulled a con so completely.

But when Jason leaves, and Turk misses him, he realizes that it's actually neither.

-o-

Someone is pounding at his door. At first, Turk thinks it's just his headache, which hasn't gone away, even with the painkillers he's on. If not, he figures it's probably Jason or one of the other hundred Donnellys he's managed to meet in the last month. He's groggy enough that he doesn't really think to look before he opens it.

He stares for a minute, and blinks, and wonders if he has a head injury in addition to his healing bullet wound.

Because Virgil is standing there.

He's got a duffel slung over his shoulder and his shirt looks wrinkled. His eyes are red, and there are dark moons under his eyes.

"Well, at least you're alive!" Virgil says.

Turk blinks in reply.

Virgil takes a breath and then pushes past him. He dumps the bag unceremoniously on the floor and spins on Turk as he closed the door. "Why didn't you tell me you were alive!"

"I thought we said no contact," Turk says, actually surprised.

"Sure, if life is normal," Virgil says, and his voice sounds a little hysterical, just like on a con, but his brother isn't pulling anything right now.

"This isn't not normal," Turk tries to explain.

"You were shot!"

"Trust me, I know," Turk says.

Virgil's hands wave a little bit, wild and aimlessly. "I just didn't think I should have to hear you got shot from a third party," he says, and there's more than a hint of worry hiding behind his indignation.

Turk feels a little chagrined, and shrugs. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Oh. Right," Virgil says, throwing his hands up. "You nearly died and it's not a big deal."

Turk frowns. "Who told you anyway?"

"Rusty," he says. "Heard it from Frank, who's back and working in Atlantic City."

Turk's frown deepens. "And where'd he hear it?"

Virgil shrugs. "Even if we're dead, you know they're all going to keep tabs on us."

Turk cocks his head. He's not sure if it's reassuring or disconcerting that so many people from the former life he just gave up still know about the life he has now. He had sort of thought dying would take care of that, but then again, Danny Ocean and his team should never be underestimated. "That's weird."

"No, what's weird is that you didn't call me," Virgil asserts again, and if the breach in their cover bothers him, apparently Turk's near death experience bothers him more.

Turk rolls his eyes. "Technically, you're not my brother here."

"Technically, you can shove it up your ass," he says.

At that, Turk snickers. "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Virgil says stiffly.

"You flew all the way out here," he says, a little gleeful.

"Because Danny wouldn't stop calling to find out how you were," Virgil says. "Rusty called so many times, Sarah filed a restraining order."

Turk is smug. "You love me."

"Do not."

"Do."

Virgil thwaps him upside the head. "Idiot."

-o-

"You've changed," Virgil says.

Turk frowns. "I haven't changed."

Virgil shakes his head, adamant. "No, no, you've changed," he insists.

"I haven't changed," Turk says again, just as obstinate.

"You talk with an accent."

"I talk - I talk with an accent?" Turk asks, disbelieving.

Virgil nods, quite seriously. "Your entire rhythm of speech is different, complete with different slang."

Turk puffs his chest out defiantly. "My slang is no different."

"You asked if I wanted a pie," Virgil says.

Turk shrugs. "What's wrong with that?"

"I thought you had actual pie."

"Pizza is a type of pie."

"Pizza is pizza. Cherry is a type of pie."

Turk shakes his head, hands flailing. "I'm just getting into the part," he argues. "You know you have to sell a con from the inside out."

"There's selling a con and then there's when the con sells you," Virgil says.

Turk's face screws up. "That doesn't make any sense."

Virgil ponders that, nodding. "Yeah, I know."

Turk settles back, mollified. "I'm not the only one who's changed," he says after a moment.

"Oh, what, you think I've changed?"

Turk nods. "You've changed."

Virgil rolls his eyes. "I still speak standard English."

"You're married."

"You wear a badge."

"You're having a kid."

"You took a bullet in the line of duty."

Turk has to consider that. He shrugs a little. "Maybe we've both changed."

Virgil draws a breath and nods thoughtfully. "Yeah. Maybe we have."

-o-

For a day, it's just like it used to be. They sit on the couch watching TV, but instead of home cooked meals, Turk picks up carry out from the Chinese place down the street.

"So this is what you do?" Virgil asks.

Turk blinks. "What do you mean?"

Virgil nods to the apartment. "This. It's your life?"

"Normally, I go to work," Turk explains.

Virgil seems to consider that, nodding. "It doesn't get...lonely?"

Turk shrugs. "Just quiet. I'm getting used to the quiet."

"And you're okay with that?"

Turk shrugs again. "It's not quiet at work," he says. "I've got this crazy-ass partner. Good guy, but sometimes I wonder how he gets out of bed on time."

Virgil snickers.

Turk looks at him. "What?"

"Just you, being the punctual one."

"I've always been punctual."

"You thought school started at 9:15."

Turk cocks his head. "Wait, school didn't start at 9:15?"

-o-

For dessert, Turk has a leftover cake that one of his coworkers brought him. He dishes out two large slices and they eat in amiable silence at the table.

"So, what's your job like?" Turk finally asks.

Virgil looks vaguely surprised. "Better than the old one," he says. "I've started to work in a Java environment exclusively. More product development for clients rather than in-house work."

Turk nods even though he only sort of knows what he's talking about. "And Sarah is okay with it?"

Virgil smiles at that, a dumb boyish smile. "She doesn't care," he says. "She's been too busy setting up the nursery."

Turk tries to imagine that, but fails. On some level, he still wishes that babies came from storks. "That's coming up soon, isn't it?" he asks. "The baby?"

Virgil nods, still excited. "Less than a month," he says.

Turk whistles. "And she still let you come out here?"

Virgil looks away, shrugging, almost shy. "I wouldn't say she was thrilled with the idea," he admits.

Turk ponders that, but not too hard. Instead, he asks, "So are you really ready for this?"

Because asking about impending fatherhood is easier than talking about their relationship.

Virgil laughs. "I don't have much choice now."

"You think you can, you know," Turk says, shrugging a little. "Take care of it and all?"

Virgil shrugs back. "We took some classes."

Turk tries to imagine that. Tries to imagine Virgil changing a diaper. Tries to imagine anything else regarding babies.

He mostly fails.

The meager picture he does bring up consequently terrifies him.

Brow furrowing, Turk says, "And you think I'm the one with a dangerous life."

Virgil laughs.

-o-

After dessert, the evening turns to night. They watch infomercials until it's late, sharing a few beers. When Turk is buzzed, the questions come easier, and Virgil's answers are prompt.

"You're going to have to change diapers," Turk informs his brother.

"I know," Virgil says. "I've tried thinking of ways around it, but I've got nothing."

"And what about the whole childbirth thing?" Turk asks. "I mean, did you see that film in ninth grade health class?"

Virgil nods solemnly. "That's the reason I didn't have sex until I was twenty."

Turk pauses, then laughs. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it."

-o-

After a few more beers, Virgil doesn't need to be prompted.

"But it's like, my baby," he says. "Do you know how awesome that is?"

Turk actually doesn't even have a clue.

Virgil blows out a breath, shaking his head. "I know there's a lot of stuff that goes with it, but that fact sort of makes it all worth it."

That part, though, Turk understands.

After a moment, he cocks his head. "Do you have a name yet?"

Virgil nods. "We've been talking about it," he says. "For a girl, I really like Josephine."

Turk can't help it. He makes a face. "Didn't we have an aunt named Josephine?"

"We have an aunt named Joslene, and we never talked to her except at Christmas," Virgil supplies, as though he's actually thought about this. "It's totally different."

Turk's not so sure, but instead he asks, "What about for a boy?"

"I'm thinking simple. I like Roger, but the missus isn't so convinced."

"Roger Robinson?"

"I like the alliteration," Virgil says with a grin.

"Maybe you should let Sarah do the naming," Turk suggests finally.

"What's wrong with my names?"

"You're just not very good at naming," Turk says. "You're good at other things, but not that."

"Oh, and you're the expert on naming suddenly."

"I came up with Danny Williams, didn't I?"

Virgil's eyes widen indignantly. "That's your evidence?"

Turk shrugs, gesturing with one hand. "Danny Williams is the perfect name."

"You stole it."

Turk makes a face. "I did not."

"Williams is the street we grew up on."

"Exactly. Familiarity makes for better recall."

"It's boring."

"It's genius."

"It's generic," Virgil insists. "And I can't believe you really went with Danny."

"I picked a strong name."

"What, you think you can be Danny Ocean?"

"No, I think I can be Danny Williams," Turk says.

Virgil shakes his head, a little disgusted. "You're a wannabe."

"Oh, and you did so much better?"

Virgil's brow creases. "My name is excellent."

"Gil Robinson," Turk says, just to remind his brother.

"Short for Gilbert," Virgil says, as if it makes a difference.

"No one is named Gil."

"That's why it works."

"You sound like a fish," Turk says. "Maybe stick with the theme, name the baby Finn."

Virgil rolls his eyes, mocking laughing. "Gil is short for Virgil. I wanted to keep some connection to myself."

Turk snorts. "As if there's anything there worth holding onto."

"Well, then, that explains why you didn't stick with Turk," Virgil says.

It's Turk's turn to roll his eyes. He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know, Turk would make a great name for the baby."

"No," Virgil says flatly.

"It would," Turk says.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I would rather name the baby Finn."

Turk smiles triumphantly. "See, I told you I was good at naming!"

-o-

Virgil can't stay long. His wife is eight months pregnant, after all.

Turk figures that's really for the best, because he's not sure he wants to risk explaining how Gil Robinson is his brother.

Still, it's harder than Turk expects to say goodbye.

Virgil packs slowly and lingers. "So. See you in a year?"

"Yeah, under better circumstances, maybe," Turk suggests.

Virgil laughs. "Neutral ground?"

"Vegas might be nice."

"I know of a guy with the best casino in twenty years," Virgil says.

"Really?" Turk plays along. "That sounds promising."

"Very."

"We'll do it, then," Turk says.

Virgil nods. "It's a date."

They linger a moment more and Virgil shuffles his feet. He looks up, meets Turk's gaze and nods. "Try not to get shot, okay?"

Turk offers a smile. "Try not to drop the baby on its head."

"Yeah," Virgil says, smiling a little. "Will do."

Turk lifts his chin, lips quirked ruefully. "Yeah, me, too."

-o-

It's good to see Virgil, but it's a strange reminder of his past. Most days, Turk doesn't think too much about the fact that he's living a fabricated life, but when the lie meets reality, it gets a little harder. He's lived so purposefully as Danny Williams that some days he believes it without Virgil around to keep him grounded.

This time in Jersey, though, it's been something entirely different. This time in Jersey has been all in, all the time. He's Danny more than he's Turk and now that he's been Turk, it's hard to make sense of what he's doing.

Because what is he doing? Being a cop is serious, and he's got the bullet wound to prove it. And the Donnellys are good people and they all think he's a well meaning cop who saved his partner's life.

He took the bullet, and he doesn't regret it, and Jason is his partner, but Turk's not a cop. He's pulling a con, he's living a lie, so how can it be true and false all at once? Which one counts for more? Which one should he stick with? Does he have a right to any of this?

Maybe he's kidding himself. Maybe this gunshot is a wake up call.

He thinks, a year ago, he was pulling one of the biggest jobs that Vegas will never hear about. He likes being a cop, but a gun and a badge are a gun and a badge, and Turk's got a lifetime of crime and underachievement to suggest just how farcical this all is.

What if he gets shot again? What if someone finds out he's not really Danny Williams? What if he fails? After all this time, he has nothing to fall back on, and in all his planning, he never counted on failure as an option. He never stopped to think it might not work out.

But it might not work out.

The bullet wound on his chest is a convincing argument. Turk's just a guy. The same guy he's always been. Maybe this is nothing more than playing cops and robbers, only this time he's make believing for the wrong side.

But what's he supposed to do?

Turk sits in his apartment and wonders, what is he supposed to do?

-o-

He's not sure what he's supposed to do, so Turk just does what he's always done.

He sits in his apartment and reads. He watches a little TV, but since the Donnellys gave him a bona fide library, reading seems like the thing to do.

Besides, if he's reading, he's not thinking, and Turk thinks he should know by now not to think.

His doctor is happy with his progress and the department shrink thinks he's doing just fine. He'll be back on active duty soon.

That's good, or it should be good, but Turk doesn't know, so he keeps on reading because it seems to be the best option he has.

He also thought about buying a hotel and starting fresh, but he doesn't have the energy to contact Danny about the money, and it never seems to work for Rusty, so reading it is.

-o-

Two days before he's supposed to return to active duty, Turk gets a letter. It's postmarked from Cardiff, Wales, with no return address.

He recognizes the print, though, and when he opens it up, three pages fall out, all filled with Basher's precise prose.

A lot of the letter is rambly, telling him about the value of life and the importance of finding your calling, no matter what it may be. Turk gets lost when Basher launches into an analogy comparing police work to the migration of geese in the winter, but at the end, Basher brings it to a place Turk understands.

Ultimately, you've proved the point very well: death is only a beginning and living is a choice we make. And it's not just about who we think we are but what we do with our lives that matters. Criminal or cop, if we're true to ourselves and leave the world better than we found it, then we've achieved all there is to achieve.

I'm telling you this as a brother: Danny Williams is more than a name. He's even more than a cop. He's the self-made man we all want to be and no bullet can take that away so soon.

Recover strong, brother.

-Basher

Turk rereads it a few times, and then tucks it in his bedside table when he goes to bed that night. It's the best night of sleep he's had since getting shot, and when he wakes up, he thinks the hardest person to fool is himself and if he can just let go, this might just work out after all.

-o-

It gets easier. He's cleared for duty, and his first day back, everyone stops by to tell him how much they missed him. Falling back into the routine takes a little bit, but Jason slowly stops treating him like glass and starts piling paperwork on his desk again.

He still hurts, especially in the cold. When he breathes deep, he can feel the ache in his chest, and his scar seems to itch. But if he's stiff in his body, he's loose in spirit.

It gets easier.

The guys at the precinct are friendlier, and he never has to eat lunch alone. Jason's mother insists he comes for Sunday dinner, and it starts off as a one-time thing, but soon he's going to church with them and coming home for all the trimmings week after week.

His focus increases; his self-confidence soars. He's got the best arrest rate in the precinct, and it makes him proud to do his job so well.

It gets easier.

-o-

Turk's life rolls along. He and Jason work their beat; he joins a fantasy football league with some guys at the station. At night, he reads more books, tackling everything from law enforcement theory to the history of New Jersey.

It's rolling along, just right, just perfect. He doesn't get shot and he doesn't shoot anyone, so it feels good enough. It feels right enough.

Then one day, he's working a traffic route while Jason picks up some coffee when someone rams his cruiser from behind.

At first, he's shocked by the fact that someone had the idiocy to hit a cop, and then he's pissed off that someone had the idiocy to hit a cop.

Angry, he throws open his door and his hands are waving in the air until he sees the other driver.

She pretty and brunette, and her eyes are wide. She gets out and she's already apologizing.

Turk sees her eyes, her hair; he hears her English accent, and it's pretty much like he's been rear-ended all over again.

-o-

Her name is Rachel and she drives Turk crazy.

She's difficult and she's aggravating. She's argumentative and snobby. She never likes where he takes her for dinner and she criticizes everything about his apartment. She makes him rant, she makes him rave, and then she makes him kiss her like he's never kissed anyone before.

She makes Turk think about her all the time. She makes Turk want to be with her every spare moment he has. She makes Turk think maybe he's in love.

Then Turk realizes, damn it: he's in love.

-o-

The thing with Rachel is that she changes everything and nothing all at once. She fits into his life in a way that makes him think she was always supposed to be there, but now that's she's there, everything else feels different.

When Jason asks him if he wants to go to the game on Saturday, Turk doesn't have to check his schedule to know he can't. "Rachel wants to go to the city," he says. "Something about shopping."

Jason lifts his eyebrows. "A little whipped, aren't you, buddy?"

Turk glares. Glares a lot, but can't disagree. Because he knows he probably should, but he really doesn't want it to change. Turk's used to taking risks, but letting Rachel into his life, into his heart - this is the biggest one yet and when he's not terrified of what that means, he's loving every minute.

-o-

Rachel asks a lot about where he comes from. Turk keeps his answers vague. Rachel thinks he's ashamed of how badly he underachieved as a teen and is compensating for being the sole survivor of his family, and that's true enough that Turk doesn't have to contradict her.

After a month, he takes her home to meet Mama Donnelly, who seems to know him better than his own mother ever did, so it seems about right. They have a family meal, complete with all the trimmings. Afterward, Jason and his siblings break out a game of Catch-Phrase that makes Rachel snort with laughter.

Before Turk goes to take her home, Mama Donnelly squeezes his arm and winks at him. "She makes you happy, dear," she says, squeezing again. "And that means she makes you better."

-o-

Jason mocks him mercilessly. He taunts Turk with tickets to games he knows Turk can't attend. Turk endures it, and if he pouts a little, that's just normal.

Then Jason meets Holly, and Turk realizes what it means for everyone to grow up.

-o-

Most of Turk's life has seemed long. Years filled with nothing, seconds ticking by with painful clarity.

But this year has been fast. It feels like yesterday he moved here. It's been months since he wanted to think of himself as Turk Malloy at all. Turk's always been a good actor, but this isn't acting anymore.

But Turk still thinks of it all sometimes. He thinks of the rest of the team and what they're doing. He thinks of Danny Ocean hatching a plan, Rusty working a new angle. He thinks of Yen in a big house and Livingston trying to do standup. He thinks of Frank dealing cards and Basher rigging something to explode. He thinks of Saul at the races and Reuben opening his casino. He thinks of Linus making a name for himself and Benedict getting screwed.

He thinks of Virgil, settled in Arizona and a niece he's never met.

He can tell Rachel everything, but he can't tell her this, and of all the things he planned for, this isn't one of them.

The problem is, Turk can't have both. 364 days a year he's Danny Williams, but one day he's Turk Malloy.

And that day is today.

-o-

Turk books a room in The Midas, the latest casino on the strip. Somehow, Danny Williams' name gets tagged and he gets a free upgrade and VIP privileges.

"Compliments of management," the bellhop tells him.

Turk grins and looks around his suite. He tips the bellhop and sits down on one of the couches. The stylings are opulent but classic, just like Reuben.

It's funny, because in some ways Utah will always be his home and in others, his heart is all in Jersey, but still, there's something about this place that just seems so right and probably always will.

-o-

It's coincidence, of course, when Danny Williams is booked in a room next to Gilbert Robinson and family. Mrs. Robinson gets treated to full days of spa treatment on the premises, while Gil and Danny are fronted a few grand to spend at the casino as they please.

That's all well and good, and it's been a long time since Turk's had anything resembling a vacation, but none of that matters. The suite doesn't matter, the complimentary mini bar doesn't matter. The free perks, the decadent touches - there was a time when Turk may have enjoyed them. But today all Turk wants - the only thing he wants - is to shake his brother's hand and meet his niece.

-o-

Turk does the second thing straight away. It's hard not to, since he can hear the crying in the hall before Virgil even gets settled. Turk waits until the bellhop goes away before using the spare key Reuben left for him on the table.

Inside, Sarah is setting up a space for a nursery and Virgil is sitting on the floor, holding a blonde baby up on her feet. She can stand, but her chubby legs are ramrod straight and she's gripping Virgil's hand as she shifts her feet in a frenetic dance.

Her blonde hair is pulled up into a spiky ponytail, accenting with a bow. She's wearing a pink dress with a frill on the bottom. She's laughing.

Turk doesn't realize he's staring until Virgil looks up at him. "Hey, Finn," he says, leaning close to the baby. "Meet your Uncle Danny."

-o-

Her name is Finn Melissa Robinson, and she's ten months old. She's learning to walk because she's precocious like that, and her favorite hobbies, as best Turk can tell, are drooling and trying to eat things off the floor.

"She's amazing," Turk says, because she is. From the dimples in her cheeks to the pitch of her giggle, she's amazing.

Virgil beams. "Yeah, she's something else," he agrees.

Turk shakes his head and doesn't know what else to do. It's surreal watching her, watching Virgil. His brother has always been able to do anything he puts his mind to, but the way he seems to be settled into parenthood is remarkable. He's a natural father, gentle and loving. When Finn's hair starts to come out of its ponytail, he redoes it, almost better than before.

"You must be very proud," Turk says, because he's proud and he's never met her before.

Virgil nods. "She keeps life interesting," he says. Then he looks at his daughter, rubbing his nose to hers. She laughs gleefully. "Don't you, pumpkin?"

Turk laughs, shaking his head. "She couldn't be more perfect," he says. Then he pauses, watching as Virgil helps Finn turn the page in a board book.

Finn looks at the picture for a moment, then uses her hands to pick up the book, putting it haphazardly into her mouth as she begins to chew.

"But Finn?" Turk asks. "Really?"

Virgil shrugs. "Just a name I picked up somewhere."

Turk snorts.

Then Finn gurgles and coos, pushing to her feet. When she turns to Turk, struggling to take a tentative step, it doesn't matter what her name is. It just matters that she's Virgil's daughter, and for the second time in his life, Turk falls in love.

-o-

With Finn, there's not a lot they can do, but really, that seems about right. When Finn naps in the other room of the suite, Turk and Virgil sit sprawled on the couch, staring at the flat screen high definition TV.

"Reuben's got some style," Virgil observes, not looking away from the screen.

Turk nods. "He deserves it," he says. "All the years he's put into this town. He deserves it."

Virgil is silent for a moment. "I guess it goes to show."

Turk blinks at the screen, tilting his head. "Goes to show what?"

"Sometimes you really do get what you want," he says.

Turk looks at his brother.

Virgil looks at Turk.

Turk shakes his head, smiling. He thinks about Finn in the other room. He thinks about Rachel back in Jersey. "Yeah," he says. "I guess you do."

-o-

They get one night out, when Virgil's wife stays home with Finn. At the casino, they try a few hands, but neither of them have their hearts into it. They end up outside on the strip, strolling amongst the lights and tourists.

"I used to think this town was everything," Turk says, remembering the thrill of his first job here. "Watching Danny and Rusty - sometimes I thought if I could just make it here..."

His voice trails off, lost in the buzz of the night.

"I used to think working a job was the only way to challenge myself," Virgil adds.

"I thought the money would change my life."

Virgil nods. "I thought I could do this forever."

Turk glances at his brother. "We were good," he says, matter of fact.

Virgil meets his eyes, nodding back. "Yeah," he says. "We were."

They come to the fountain and neither of them say anything but they stop all the same. Leaning against the railing, they watch the water dance in the lights, moving in an intricate dance they both knew too well.

"I think I'll always miss it," Turk says. "A little bit."

"I don't think I can ever regret it," Virgil adds.

Turk looks back out at the water. Thinks about the first time he was here. Thinks about what this place means to him.

He laughs to himself, and looks down, before looking up at Virgil again. "Yeah," he agrees, then he smiles ruefully. "But I don't think I ever want to go back."

Virgil smiles back. "Me neither."

-o-

The trip is short. They fit a year into a day, and Turk doesn't realize until it's over how it doesn't seem like enough. When they get back to their rooms, they sit in Turk's empty suite and drink a couple of beers. Virgil tells Turk about his company in Arizona and his latest projects. He tells him about how much Finn is growing and all the things she's doing.

Turk tells Virgil about his caseload and some of the funnier arrests he's done. He tells him about Jason and the Donnellys and how he's learning to cook and has memorized the Bill of Rights. He tells him about Rachel.

They talk about what they have to go back to and where they want to be in a year.

Sometime past three, they fall asleep, empty bottles of beer in their hands and heads inclined together on the couch.

-o-

They next day before check out, Turk stops by and says goodbye. He hugs Sarah and picks up Finn and looks her in the eyes. She grins, a slobbering smile, and reaches out to touch the scruff on his chin with sticky hands. Turk smiles and leans in, nuzzling her a little.

"You take care of your daddy, okay?" he says to her.

She giggles in response.

Turk brushes his lips against her cheek before handing her back to her mother.

Virgil hesitates, swallowing hard. He tries to smile, and almost pulls it off. "So, see you in a year?" he asks.

Turk tries to find his voice around the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he says. "See you next year."

-o-

The flight home is crowded. There seems to be a group of elderly people on their way back to the East Coast, most of whom looks miserable and hung over, and Turk remembers belatedly that Vegas isn't all glitz and glamour to people who don't know how to circumvent the bank.

There's also this young couple all over each other across the aisle, and Turk doesn't have to wonder what they did on their vacation. There's a handful of businessmen, reading their newspapers or sleeping, and even a small family trying to play a game of Pictionary in their seats.

Turk watches all of them, and considers what they left, what they're going back to. He thinks of Jason and Rachel, and even though he knows he wasn't gone long, he still wonders if they missed him.

Then he thinks of Virgil and Sarah, driving with little Finn in the backseat. He wonders how much bigger she'll be the next time he sees her, if she'll remember him at all.

He thinks of Finn napping, of Virgil singing kids songs to make her laugh. He thinks of their breaks at fast food restaurants and rest stops on the way home, just to break things up.

It's funny. Because Turk's never been envious of his brother - at least not in ways that he would admit - but right then, Turk thinks Virgil may have everything Turk's ever wanted.

-o-

He gets in late, and catches a cab from the airport. He almost calls Rachel, but he knows she has to work early in the morning and doesn't want to disturb her. When he gets back to his place, he unlocks the door and drops his suitcase heavily inside.

There's a light on in the living room, and for a second, Turk's instincts kick in. He's not carrying his weapon, though, and his gun is in his bedroom. This could be a run of the mill robbery - considering where he lives, it wouldn't be unheard of - or it could be worse. Maybe Bank found them after all this time. Maybe he's made other enemies during his time in the game.

But then he sees Rachel standing in the light and she's smiling. Her eyes look a little sleepy, but her face is bright. "I couldn't imagine not seeing you," she says, almost as an apology.

Turk doesn't care that he hasn't slept for real in two days. He doesn't care that he has coffee breath and a sore back. He just cares that Rachel's here, standing in his apartment, because she couldn't imagine not seeing him.

He scales the distance between them in a few long steps. She looks like she's about to say something else, but he doesn't let her. He wraps his arms around her, runs his fingers through her hair, and kisses her.

She startles for a moment, but she gives in. When her fingers lace through his hair, they press closer together.

After a moment, he pulls away, resting his forehead against hers. She's grinning wildly. "Welcome home, Daniel," she whispers to him, her lips brushing against his nose.

"I should go away more often," he tells her.

She pouts a little. "Not on my life," she says. "I want you right here. Forever."

He laughs. "I think maybe I can pull that off," he says, and then he pulls her close again.

-o-

For a week, Turk lives. He laughs harder at Jason's jokes. He takes the time to say hi to more people at the station. He thanks everyone who waits on him, and he leaves extra large tips when he eats out. He whistles while on patrol and buys Rachel flowers just because.

When Turk does all of Jason's paperwork without a single comment, his partner sits across from him, staring at him critically. "Who are you anymore?"

Turk looks up, shrugging. "Your partner," he says. "Who do you think I am?"

"My partner is a wannabe Jersey boy whose favorite pastime is complaining," Jason says pointedly. "Look at you, you're positively chipper. I certainly can't pass you off as a native anymore. And to think, we were doing so good."

Turk rolls his eyes. "I'm just in a good mood is all," he says. "I like my life. Is that such a bad thing?"

Jason stares. "I ask you again, who are you?"

At this, Turk puts his pencil down and levels his partner with a glare. "I'm Danny Williams, your partner," he says, and he says it emphatically, because he means it. "And if you don't stop asking me that, you'll see just how Jersey I can be, got it?"

At that, Jason grins. "Thank God," he says. "I was beginning to worry there."

-o-

At Sunday lunch, Mama Donnelly pulls him to sit next to her on the couch. Rachel is in the next room, talking to Jason's sister about a movie they saw last week while Jason and his brother are about to settle into watch some sports on TV.

While Turk may only be adopted into this family, he knows enough not to cross Mama Donnelly.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, as casually as he can, because she's positively staring at him.

"I'm just trying to figure," she says, her accent thick.

Turk raises his eyebrows. "Trying to figure what?"

"What's different about you," she says.

This takes Turk by surprise. He shrugs. "There's nothing-"

She waves a hand at him in annoyance. "There's something different," she says decidedly. "You've always been a remarkable young man, ever since I first met you. And it's been something, watching you grow. And Rachel has changed you, but that's not it either."

Turk shakes his head. "I don't-"

She waves her hand again. "It's like you finally accepted that you fit here," she says, and Turk's heart skips a beat. "Lord knows, you always did, but everyone seemed to accept it but you. But now...it's different. Now you know you fit."

Turk blinks, not sure what to say.

Then her face breaks into a smile. She leans forward, squeezing his arm. "That's a good thing, son," she says. "I was just wondering who I should thank, is all."

And Turk feels his heart start to pound again, blood pouring through his body. This is home. This is family. This is life.

He swallows hard and smiles. "You can start with yourself," he says.

She clucks her tongue then leans over further, pulling him into a hug. Then she whispers into his ear, "You don't have to tell me your secrets for me to know you have them," she says. "You just need to know that it's never going to make a difference. Not in the least."

When she pulls away, Turk is speechless, but she doesn't linger any further. She pushes to her feet and goes to the kitchen, picking up a tray of cookies to offer them to the girls.

Turk just watches her, and wonders how much she knows. For a moment, there's panic in the thought, but as Mama Donnelly cajoles Rachel into eating a frosted sugar cookie, somehow he knows there's nothing to worry about.

-o-

As a criminal, Turk never seemed to have much to say. At least, not much that mattered. True, he and Virgil were highly adept at endless and pointless repartee, but it was all part of the con or a sheer result of the boredom that sometimes ensued while being on the job. In such situations, Turk could play twenty questions or debate the relative qualities of their equipment, but beyond that, there wasn't much to say.

As a cop, Turk increasingly finds the opposite is true. It'd be easy to blame Jason, who is skilled at talking about anything ad nauseum for no reason at all. If something can be said in four words, Jason is sure to use ten, and he uses hand motions to punctuate his points.

Turk's played enough cons that picking up on such nuances is pretty natural to him, but he's never played a con so long that it actually changes the very way he is. Because if Jason is impressive in his communication prowess, Turk becomes a damn genius.

He can order a slice of pizza without saying a word and can coerce Rachel to stay the night without more than two good looks and one beckoning finger.

And his ability to talk...

It puts Jason to shame.

If Jason uses ten words, Turk can come up with twenty. Without even trying. And his rants are known throughout the precinct - hell, the whole damn department, with whispers of his power all the way in NYC.

"And to think I was worried about you fitting in," Jason says one day, after Turk goes off on a tirade about diagonal parking lines.

Turk snorts, shrugging his shoulders. "You only wish, babe."

-o-

For all of Jason's crap, he's the one who pops the question first. Afterward, he's giddy and smiles for two weeks straight. When he finally gets his head out of the clouds long enough to have an adult conversation, he asks Turk to be his best man.

Turk stops and looks at his partner. "What about your brother?"

Jason huffs a laugh. "You mean the guy who lost every toy I ever owned and even lost my car in high school?" he asks, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so."

"He's your brother, man," Turk says, thinking of Virgil.

"Yeah," Jason agrees. "And you're not?"

Turk's stomach flutters. "It's not the same."

"No, it's better," Jason argues. "Some family you're born into. Some you make. I want you there by my side, man. I want you."

-o-

On Jason's wedding day, they're at the church. They're all in tuxes, and Turk double checks his in the mirror before fixing his partner's.

Jason smiles at him, grateful and nervous. "We've come a long way, haven't we?" he asks.

Turk smiles back, thinks about walking out of a Vegas casino with upwards of 160 million in cash. He thinks about stealing a Faberge egg and starting a worker's revolt in Mexico. He thinks about a gravestone in Utah and a list of burnt contacts he doesn't plan on using again.

He pats Jason on the shoulder. "Yeah," he says. "We definitely have."


	5. Chapter 5

PART FIVE

Most people think that change isn't easy.

After everything, Turk's sort of inclined to think the opposite. So when his captain suggests taking the detective's exam, it makes a lot of sense.

"I don't want to be a beat cop forever," Turk explains to Jason in the squad car.

"You sound like Holly," Jason says, looking out his window.

Turk takes a left. "You could do it, too," he suggests. He glances at his partner. "We could do it together."

Jason makes a face. "I like what we do."

Turk rolls his eyes. "And you think you won't like being a detective?"

"It's work," Jason whines.

Turk shakes his head. "It's life."

-o-

They study together. Jason's intuitive in a way Turk isn't, but it's Turk who has the discipline. They take the test on the same day, and when the results come in, their captain smiles as he hands them the envelopes.

Jason rips into his and lets out a whoop. "Oh, thank God!" he says. He holds up his paper to Turk brightly. "Passing score, man. Passing score."

Turk looks at Jason, waving the paper, and grins.

Jason nods. "What about you?"

Turk shrugs, nonchalant. "I eeked by."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Somehow I doubt that."

"I passed," Turk says.

But Jason is like a dog with a bone and he reaches over, nipping the paper from Turk's hands.

Turk protests, and tries to reach it back, but Jason already has it and is spinning in his chair to get away.

When he completes a rotation, he stops, and looks blankly at Turk. He swears.

Blushing, Turk leans over and takes the paper back. "It's nothing."

"You scored a 99," he says. "How the hell does anyone score a 99?"

Turk flusters, stuffing the paper in his desk. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Jason protests, and he turns to one of the officers across the way for confirmation.

Turk doesn't listen and he rolls his eyes, but deep down he knows Jason's right. Because Turk's never scored well on anything in his life, and he's used to coming in last most of the time. He's good a certain things, but not the sort of things a respectable person is proud of. Somehow, it was easier believing that so he didn't have to try. It's easier to impress people if they're not expecting much.

The problem is, he sees now, that that was as much as a facade as Danny Williams is now. It's a hard thing, knowing what's real in Turk's life, but that hint of pride, that spark of potential feel more real than just about anything else.

-o-

It's been years since Turk first met Danny Ocean, but he finally understands why he's such a good conman. It's not that he's knowledgeable, even though he really, really is. It's not that he's a smooth talker, but there's no doubt he's that, too. It's not that he's got quick fingers and faster wit. It's none of those skills or talents that have always so impressed Turk.

It's Danny's complete belief in his own abilities.

It takes a certain kind of man to plot a heist of the three biggest casinos in the Strip. Pulling it off is a feat, of course, but most men wouldn't even have the guts to think that big. Danny Ocean is a man who sees possibilities in everything and instead of walking away, walks headlong into a situation, no matter what the odds may be. Because Danny Ocean believes he can win, even when he shouldn't, and self-confidence like that is a rare commodity indeed.

The thing is, that's never been Turk, but Turk Malloy is dead, and Danny Williams may be more like his namesake than he ever imagined.

And there's the rub. Not just to imagine. To believe. To act.

Turk's ready, he thinks, he knows. He's ready.

-o-

Turk's first thought is that he should cash out some of the money he had Danny stash away. It's funny, because for all the time and effort he put into the Bank job, he never wanted a penny of the profits. Benedict tracking them down had been a stark wake up call, and after working as a cop, the idea of spending stolen money just rubbed him wrong. He'd taken some, of course, if only because he was unemployed at the time. But after settling down in Jersey, he's had Danny stop his monthly stipend, and he's been living comfortably on his cop's salary since.

It's been easy, truthfully. There's not much he wants that he doesn't already have. After the Benedict job, he'd been quick to spend his money on anything he thought he might like, and he didn't end up caring much about any of it.

But now, in Jersey, he has friends and family, and that's the kind of stuff that doesn't cost him a dime.

Still, if acing the detective's exam has taught him anything, it's that if he's going to do something, he's going to do it right. As a perpetual slacker growing up, this runs a bit contrary to his nature, but the thought of half-assing it when asking Rachel to marry him just doesn't seem right.

And that freaks him out. Not just that he's actually going to ask Rachel to marry him, but that he's actually concerned about doing it right.

So his first thought is that he needs some cash. He's got some in savings from his salary, but it's pretty meager, all things considered, because Turk lives cheap, but he still goes out to eat and likes to have a nice car And Rachel's a classy kind of girl, so picking up a cheap ring wouldn't do her justice.

Besides, he's half afraid she'd shove a lesser ring down his throat if he had the audacity to ask her with something that was less than a carat.

With the cash he's got in tucked away in alternative savings, he could get Rachel anything. Something big and flashy that might even impress her mother.

That's tempting - it really is - because Rachel's mother is an uptight woman with aristocratic virtues and how the hell was Turk supposed to know that she was serious about not wanting to go to a baseball game?

And he wants the best for Rachel - he really, really does. He wants her to have all her dreams come true. He wants to give her a Jane Austen novel and sweep her off her feet, and it's a increasingly clear fact that he probably won't be able to pull that off living like he is now.

It is his money. And he did earn it, even if not quite legally. This would be the best opportunity to use some of it that he's come across so far. Danny's just a phone call away, with the emergency contact number they all got after parting ways.

And still, Turk hesitates. Because the money is Turk's, but it's not Danny Williams'. Rachel fell in love with a beat cop, not a conman. When Turk passed the detective's exam, it was all hard work and dedication, even if he could have hacked the system and planted the numbers himself.

This is a self-made life, and he wants to do this right. If he's going to ask Rachel to marry him, he's going to do it with integrity and honor.

And a piss-ant sized ring.

This is the biggest bet he's made yet. That he can offer himself, and only that, and hope that she still says yes.

-o-

Turk's nervous.

It's weird, because it's been a long time since he's been nervous. He remembers the sensation vaguely, from his first interview in Salt Lake City, when Joseph Vincent had asked him why he wanted to be a cop.

Turk had been afraid of getting caught then. He'd been afraid of screwing up like Virgil expected him to, of being embarrassed like he normally was.

Somehow, though, this doesn't compare.

Because Turk is actually trembling. He can't speak when he picks Rachel up for dinner and he spills his water all over their table. He clatters his silverware noisily while he tries to eat and swallows a bite of his salad wrong so that by the time he's breathing normally again, the entire restaurant is watching him and a doctor has been paged.

It's hard to say who is more red faced when they leave - Turk for lack of oxygen or Rachel with embarrassment.

Back at his place, everything is clean and he's glad that he bought the pie and wine in advance, so there's less to screw up. He drops a piece of pie on the floor while serving, but Rachel's in the living room so she doesn't see and he dumps it in the trash before she can ask what's wrong.

They eat together in candlelight, and she is suspicious. "This is highly romantic for you, Daniel," she says skeptically.

Turk shrugs. "What, a guy can't treat his girl right?"

She inclines her head, regarding him with cool bemusement. "Treating me right is one thing, making a scene at the restaurant is another," she says. "I swear, even now, I half expect you to get down on one knee and pull out a ring."

Turk's cover has been blown and while his first instinct is to cut and run, he decides to go with it. He's come this far.

He laughs. "Well," he says, shrugging a little. He gets down off the couch, kneeling in front of her. He pulls out the ring from his pocket and looks up into her eyes. "Far be it from me to disappoint you then."

-o-

Rachel is crying and then she's slapping him and then she's telling him how much she loves him and then she's ranting about his lead up and then she's on the phone with her mother.

Turk's not sure what's happening, but Rachel's wearing the ring, so he figures that's a yes.

-o-

Rachel's mother is polite enough not to cry or curse when she finds out the news. She gushes instead about the idea of a wedding dress and talks about the reception and music and flowers on the phone until Turk falls asleep in desperation while Rachel nods along. The most he comes up in the conversation is when Rachel's mother can be heard saying, "He didn't skimp you on the ring, did he?"

Breaking the news to the Donnellys is a bit more exciting. They hardly get through the front door, when Mama Donnelly's hands close on Rachel's and her eyes light up. She looks down, jaw open. "Oh, good Lord, he finally asked you," she breathes.

Just like that, the entire Donnelly clan descends on them, with hugs and squeals and there's even a little giddy jumping involved. Rachel is whisked away to show off her ring in a better light, and Mama Donnelly shakes her head and hits him upside the head.

Turk squawks in protest. "What was that for?"

"For not telling me first!" she says.

Turk throws his hands out. "This was about me and Rachel."

Mama Donnelly rolls her eyes. "I ought to push you out on the street right now for that," she says. "You're inviting Rachel to be part of this family, so I would have appreciated a little advance notice."

Turk's mouth opens but no words come out. He hadn't thought of that. It hadn't crossed his mind. Sometimes, even after everything, he still can't believe that this has become his family. This is his.

Mama Donnelly shakes her head again. "You're lucky that we love you anyway," she says. "And that you got her a nice ring. You have taste, at least, even if you don't have a lick of common sense."

Turk's still trying to find something to say as she stalks back toward the kitchen, and Jason pats him on the shoulder. "This is only the beginning, man," he says, as a warning and a promise.

Turk stares after Mama Donnelly and can hear Rachel delineating the details of the proposal while Holly and Jason's sister swoon.

Only the beginning. Maybe that should scare him, and maybe it does, but Turk can't help but feel excited all the same. Because Rachel's wearing his ring and the Donnellys are proud of him and this is only the beginning.

-o-

"What about mints," Rachel says.

It sounds innocent enough, but Turk knows it's a trick. He doesn't look up from the game on TV. "What about mints?" he lobs back.

"Should we have them in the colors of the wedding or stay with classic white?"

He knows this is something that must matter to Rachel, but no matter how hard he pretends, he really can't care. Maybe he could have at one point, but after being asked about periwinkle or baby blue, using a violin or a cello, decorating with calla lilies or roses, Turk's sort of done. Because that's just been today.

Turk shrugs. "Whatever you want, baby."

This is not the answer Rachel wants and Turk doesn't have to look up to know the look on her face. "This is an important issue," she says tersely.

Turk should smile and nod. He should. He knows that.

But.

They've been wedding planning for months and Turk's been asked his opinion on things he can't even pronounce. He's been measured and assessed, he's looked at bridal magazines and met with caterers. He's jumped through every damn hoop and listened to his mother-in-law go on across the ocean about why weddings in the States are simply not acceptable. Turk's visited every reception site within fifty miles, and he's even ridden a damn horse to determine that they really want to ride off into the sunset by car, no matter how quaint the equestrian option may seem.

And Turk's not sure why it's the mints, because he doesn't care about the mints, but yeah, it's the mints. The straw that breaks the camel's back and Turk turns off the TV and looks at Rachel.

"They're an important issue?" he asks.

She stares back at him. Defiant. "Yes," she says. "It's a very important issue."

Turk nods. "The mints are a very important issue."

"That's what I said," Rachel says, bristling slightly.

"Oh, okay," Turk says. "I mean, because I was sort of thinking that the important issue was just the bride and the groom and that we both show up on the big day. Some guests - sure, I'm fine with that. And okay, if we want to feed them something, that's probably pretty reasonable. And there can be music and alcohol, maybe even some of those little crab cakes you like so much. But fluted wine glasses? A powerpoint presentation of our history? A traditional Celtic wedding dance? Mints? Mints? And I think we've possibly crossed the line from important to complete insanity."

Rachel's fuming, and there's a twinge of hurt on her face. "Well, excuse me," she says. "I was under the impression that we wanted to have a nice wedding day."

"And I was under the impression that we just wanted to get married!"

"You're such an uncivilized pig!"

"And you're a pretentious Brit!"

Her mouth opens and she huffs hotly. "Then why do you want to marry me at all?"

Turk throws out his hands. "I don't know!" he gets to his feet. "I thought you loved me, but the only thing you seem to love are mints!"

"At least the mints don't act like a prepubescent fool!"

Turk struts toward the door, opening it with force. "Then you should marry the mints!"

"I'd probably get less grief from my mother!" Rachel yells after him after he closes the door.

-o-

Turk walks.

There's not much else to do, and he doesn't even have his wallet. It's still on the coffee table, next to his phone and his beer.

Turk's not built for this kind of thing. He can face danger on a daily basis, but wedding planning? He loves Rachel, he really does, but it's moments like these that he remembers who he is. He remembers being the underachieving criminal in Utah, blowing cash and wasting time. No long term commitments and no real responsibilities. It was a hell of a lot easier, and no one ever asked him about mints.

But he loves Rachel.

That's the thing, and he knows it. Back in Utah, Turk wasn't pissed off because he wasn't happy. He just was, someplace in between, and you can't love life without hating it just a little bit from time to time.

Turk liked working jobs. He liked hanging out with the team. He liked watching TV with his brother. He likes driving fast cars.

He liked a lot of things.

But he loves Rachel.

And that's all he needs to know.

-o-

When he gets back, Rachel's wedding plans are still spread over the table. He finds her in the bedroom, crying on the bed. When he walks in, she stiffens and doesn't look at him.

He stands in the doorway for a moment. "White," he says finally.

At that, she looks up at him. Her eyes are red rimmed and Turk can still see the tears on her cheeks. "What?"

Turk shrugs. "White mints," he says.

She inclines her head. "I thought you didn't care about mints."

"I don't ," he says. "But you do. And that's what matters."

Slowly, her face breaks into a smile. When Turk goes to her, she rolls over to meet him, and Turk knows he made the right choice.

-o-

The week before the wedding, Turk is feeling frazzled. Half of Rachel's family is there from England, and he's sleeping on the floor in his own apartment. He's barely seen Rachel at all, since her mother has whisked her away to any and all wedding planning events possible, but he's seen more of Rachel's Uncle Leland than anyone should.

Between planning and last minute changes and picking up relatives he's never met from the airport, Turk's about spent at work, and for once it's Jason who's pulling the extra paperwork while Turk generally goes insane.

At the end of his shift, his captain calls him in, and Turk thinks he's going to get reamed out for his complete lack of focus.

His captain looks serious as Turk settles down across from him, nodding a little. "So. Wedding's coming up?"

Turk forces a smile. "Next week," he confirms.

"A lot to do, I imagine."

Turk nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah, and it's just been a lot. But not so much I can't do my job. I mean-"

The captain holds up his hand, curtailing Turk's attempts to explain. "Women like to make those things complicated and I know there isn't a damn thing you can do about it," he says. "You're doing real well, all things considering."

Turk cocks his head, surprised.

The captain nods again. "I just thought you might like to know that all the paperwork-"

"I'm almost finished-" Turk says, gesturing back toward his desk in the main room. He's got a few reports he just has to finalize.

"-the paperwork for your promotion," the captain concludes, looking at Turk quite seriously.

Turk stares, wonders if he heard him right. With the lack of sleep and the angst over trying to make Rachel's mother not thing of him as a Sodomite, it's been a stressful time. "What?"

The captain smiles a little, picks up a piece of paper, and hands it over to Turk. "Your promotion to detective," he says. "Took a while, but two spots opened up and you were our top candidate."

Turk takes the paper, a little breathless. He looks at it, then looks at his captain. "I'm going to be a detective?"

The captain nods. "You and Donnelly were at the top of our list."

Turk doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he swears. It's probably not his smartest move, but Turk hasn't been firing on all cylinders for a while now, and really, it's the only response he can actually come up with.

The captain laughs now. "That sounds about right."

"Thank you," he says, seriously now, and everything else seems to fade away. All the stress, all the worry. "It means a lot, sir."

The captain's lips quirk into a smile. "We needed someone to fill those spots," he says. "Besides, just consider it a wedding gift."

And Turk can't think of anything more he'd like to get.

-o-

Turk can't think of anything more he'd like to get, except this:

Rachel's wearing a white dress. It sparkles and hugs her curves, billowing out in a simple train behind her. Her veil is draped around her sweeping up-do, and when she walks down the aisle, she's only looking at him.

Turk doesn't remember much else. He doesn't remember the songs the string quartet played or the sermon the minister preached. He doesn't remember the first course at the reception or the type of wine they drank. He doesn't remember the color of the bridesmaid dresses or the way Mama Donnelly cried in the front row. He doesn't even remember saying I do.

He just remembers Rachel, the way she looked, the way she looked at him, and knowing that at the end of the day, she was his and he was hers.

-o-

After their honeymoon, Turk and Rachel settle down in their apartment and open their wedding gifts. They receive countless things, most of which Turk only marginally recognizes. A salad spinner and a spice rack seem to make Rachel happy, though, and if lavender towels will make their life together better, then Turk's all for it.

Some of the tags get lost in the shuffle, and Rachel is trying to piece together who bought them what. She holds up what looks like cross between a cherub and a naked woman. It's etched out of marble and stands at least three feet tall, chubby limbs splayed fancifully with a wisp of carved loin cloth over the pertinent spots.

It takes effort for Rachel to hold it and she's looking at it with a mixture of wonder and horror. "Who on earth gave us this?" she asks.

Turk's about to accuse one of Rachel's many uptight relatives, but there's something about the piece. It's gaudy and classical and seems familiar.

Because he's seen it before.

In the lobby of the Midas.

Reuben.

Turk frowns, shakes his head. "No idea, babe," he says.

-o-

He fields the rest of the gifts quickly. He finds a do-it-yourself manicure kit with best wishes to both of them that he figures is safe to hand off to Rachel, even if he knows Frank would think it appropriate for both of them. He's actually pretty happy with the Best Buy gift card from Linus, but the Bed, Bath, and Beyond one from Livingston seems more up Rachel's alley. The box with an extra large pack of antacids and a economy bottle of aspirin has a card inscribed Good luck, and he can almost hear Saul's pessimistic drawl shooing him away.

He can only assume the green tea is from Yen, but the Cantonese inscription is beyond him. The kama sutra book its paired with doesn't have to be in English, and Turk hides it before he can't help but look at it. Basher's replica of a piece of British art Turk's never heard of makes Rachel rave, and he can only hope that it really is a replication for all their sakes.

Rachel has the next package open before Turk can stop her. He's not sure what to expect, and when she gasps, he fears the worst. But she holds up a crystal frame, elegant and simple. When she turns it to show him, he sees a picture of the two of them on their wedding day, smiling at the camera.

"Danny, it's gorgeous," she exclaims. "How did they have time for this?"

Turk wants to laugh, because she clearly doesn't know Danny and Rusty. Though he will admit, it's pretty impressive, even for them.

She picks up the card, brow furrowed. "I don't know them," she says. "Do you?"

Turk takes the card, looks at the signatures. D.O. is printed in small, neat font, while the double R's are large and loping.

He smiles. "Just some old friends," he says.

She puts the frame on the table, shoving away the remnants of wrapping paper and gift receipts. "Well, you certainly have excellent taste in friends," she says decidedly, still looking at the picture.

Turk smiles, still looking at the card. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

-o-

The gift from Virgil comes later and in two parts. The first, addressed to him, is smaller. He opens it and the box has an odd conglomeration of things. A piece of plastic from the toy car Turk destroyed. A boarding pass from an international flight to Amsterdam. A red hat from his waiter job at the Bank. And a single piece of paper, scrawled with a small message: We made a bet. Looks like I lost.

The second is addressed to him and Rachel, and when Turk opens it, he almost wants to cry. It's a wood plaque, and the words on it are hand chiseled. The Williams Family, it says, and underneath, welcome to our home.

The note with this is signed the Robinson family, and when Turk hangs the plaque on the wall above their dining room table, somehow it feels like it was made to go there.

-o-

If he was nervous on his wedding day, Turk doesn't remember it. Besides, he had someone else pick his clothes out, so it was a pretty easy gig. All his time as a cop, he's put on a uniform and done his duty, but today he gets to pick his own attire.

That's actually sort of overwhelming.

Turk stands in front of his closet and looks at the options. Rachel's fastidious about organization, so all his shirts and pants are lined up by color and style.

He takes a breath, and thinks about it. Thinks about being a detective, about moving up in the world. He thinks about what Davis would say if he could see him now. Thinks about Joseph Vincent and his starched collars and ties.

Turk's collars aren't quite that stiff and his fingers fumble with the tie, but when he's done, he looks in the mirror and likes what he sees. Utah or Jersey or anywhere in the States, this is what a cop looks like and this is who Turk is.

Detective Danny Williams.

He tweaks his tie, turns his wedding ring on his finger, and goes to work.

-o-

If Turk liked working a beat, he loves being a detective. It's the same kind of thing, but the chance to focus on cases is something he thrives on. Every day is like an adventure for him, and he loves everything about it, from the flashy arrests to the simple paperwork.

For a while, he's paired with a lifer going on retirement, to show him the ropes. Jason's hooked up with a veteran with ten years on the job. It's coincidence that has Turk's partner retiring when Jason's goes on maternity leave, and when they end up partnered again, Turk actually can't think of anything better.

"You should stop smiling so much," Jason says, frowning at him from across the desk.

Turk shrugs. "You have a problem with smiling?"

"I thought we went over how people in Jersey aren't supposed to be that happy."

Turk gestures. "But I am happy."

"Fine, but you should hide it."

"You want me to be less happy?"

"I want you to be more professional," Jason counters.

Turk points to himself. "You want me to be more professional?" he asks, turning his hands out toward Jason. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, now that you mention it, you could learn how to tie your tie correctly," Turk says, nodding at his partner's makeshift knot. It hangs loose and one end is too short, sticking out funny.

Jason makes a face, looking down. "What's wrong with it?"

"You look like some two-bit newbie who just graduated from the academy," he says. He picks up his own tie to demonstrate. "It's supposed to hit the top of your belt, not fall to your crotch."

"It's not falling to my crotch."

"No?" Turk asks. "Then why is the other end practically tickling your nose? Who taught you how to tie a tie anyway?"

Jason glowers, smoothing his tie ineffectually. "We're detectives, not businessmen," he says. "We're supposed to look a little rough around the edges."

"So grow some facial hair and roll up your sleeves," Turk suggests. "You just look lazy and incompetent."

"Oh, okay," Jason says sarcastically. "I never pegged you for a fashion guru."

Which is funny, since Turk's not. He's seen guys with style, and he decidedly doesn't have that. But he knows how to look the part and he knows how to make a commitment and follow through, so if that means ties and dress shirts, then Turk's going to go there, all the way.

He lifts his chin. "Yeah, well, don't even get me started on your pants."

Jason looks down. "What's wrong with my pants?"

-o-

This year, when he visits Virgil, Finn's adorable and chatty. Sarah is pregnant with Number Two, and Virgil's putting on a little weight.

"Sympathy weight," he insists when Turk jokes about it. Then he narrows his eyes and looks at Turk pointedly. "Someday you'll see."

On the plane back to Jersey, he misses his brother and his niece, but he can't stop thinking how much he hopes his brother is right.

-o-

For being dead, a lot of people seem to still know Turk Malloy. It's mysterious, the way Danny Williams gets news of a special casino gala in Vegas or why he gets consistent fliers from a nail salon outside of Atlantic City.

So it actually isn't surprising when there's a call on his cell he doesn't recognize. The number is out of Virginia, registered to a L. DeMasi.

Somehow, Turk knows to take it outside.

Ducking around the corner of the house, he checks to make sure Rachel hasn't followed. He answers, holding the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Danny Williams?" L. DeMasi asks.

"Yes," Turk replies, and Danny Ocean's voice is unmistakable.

Despite how disturbingly easy it is for Danny to track down a dead man, Turk knows this isn't a social call. He's not sure just what it is, and he holds his breath because at this point, it could be good or bad, he's not sure which.

"I'm calling in regard to a job."

Turk blows out his breath, and closes his eyes. "I already have a job, you know," he says.

"I know," L. DeMasi says. "But somehow I think you'll want to hear me out."

-o-

Turk knows he shouldn't go, but it's always hard to say no to Danny Ocean.

They meet in the city. Turk tells Rachel he has to meet an old friend, which isn't a lie.

She looks interested. "From back in Utah?" she asks. "You never do talk much about that."

Because there's not much that Turk can say without lying or implicating his former self. He shrugs. "Kind of from all around."

When she tells him to go, have a great time, he can't help but feel a little guilty.

-o-

Danny's not alone. Rusty is halfway through a plate of chili cheese fries when Turk shows up.

"Respectability looks good on you," Rusty says, nodding to Turk's button up shirt.

Turk shrugs uncomfortably, settling in his seat. He asks for a water from the waitress.

"So what's this about?"

"A job," Danny says.

"I burned that life back in Utah," Turk reminds them. "You should know; you planted the evidence."

Rusty grins a little, like he expected this, but Danny's gaze doesn't flicker. "I think you'll want to hear me out."

Rusty nods next to him, picking up another fry. "I definitely think you'll want to hear him out."

-o-

It's a lot of money and one hell of a heist. And sure, Turk doesn't need the money - he hasn't even touched most of the stuff from the Bank job - but it's still one hell of a heist.

Turk swears. "Seriously?"

Danny nods. "Seriously."

"That's why we're calling back the team," Rusty says. "We're going to need all hands on deck to pull this one off."

Turk chews on his straw, considering it. It's an ambitious heist, but with Danny, it always is. That much intrigues him, because there's something magical about watching a plan fulfill itself.

He looks from Danny to Rusty and back again. "The team's all in?"

Danny glances at Rusty. "Almost."

"Who's out?" Turk asks.

"Virgil isn't coming," Rusty reports.

Turk probably should have figured that one out for himself.

"Which is more reason why we could really use you," Danny supplies.

Turk blows out a breath, shaking his head. "I told you I was out," he says.

"And if that's what you want, then we'll let you go back to Jersey," Danny says.

"You're our first choice, though," Rusty says. "So we have to ask."

"Just to be sure," Danny adds.

Turk blows out another breath. It's more tempting than he thought it would be. It's a lot of money and one hell of a heist. But Turk hasn't used a fraction of what he earned off their last gig and he's playing on the other side of the fence now. And even if none of that were true, there's Jason and the Donnellys and a precinct of guys and Rachel.

Becoming a cop was hard. Going back to avenge Reuben was hard, too. Killing Turk Malloy has taken years of work.

But this. Looking Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan in the eyes is inexplicably easy.

"No hard feelings," he says.

Danny smiles. Rusty chuckles.

"Sometimes I wish I were made like you," Danny says.

Rusty pops one last fry into his mouth. "We'd be so much better off if we were."

With that, Danny and Rusty stand up, plopping some bills on the table. "Have a nice trip home," Danny says, and he sounds like he means it.

Turk sits there and watches as they walk away. They slip out into the city streets, simultaneously anonymous and flashy as ever. It's like watching a ghost, Turk thinks, walking straight away.

He finishes his drink then adds a few more bills for a tip and heads back home.

-o-

Home is warm and familiar. Rachel is already asleep when he gets there, tucked beneath the sheets. He presses his lips to her cheek and tells himself he made the right choice.

-o-

It's not a month later when he comes home from work to find Rachel sitting at the table. She is flustered and nervous in a way he's never seen her. When he puts his keys down, she looks at him.

"I'm pregnant," she says.

Turk stares. "You're what?"

"Pregnant," she says again. She shrugs, a little hopeful. "We're going to have a baby."

-o-

Turk has to sit down.

Oh, God, he has to sit down.

He has to breathe, too, but sitting down is easier, but it really doesn't do much. On the couch, he still feels lightheaded and his stomach churns.

Because Rachel is flustered and she's looking at him and they're going to have a baby.

Holy freakin' hell, they're going to have a baby.

He tries to remember to breathe, and suddenly sitting seems hard, too, but Rachel's flustered and they're going to have a baby.

"Danny," Rachel says, turned in her seat at the table. "Say something."

He swallows hard and finally manages to look at her. He sees her and tries to imagine a baby. "You're sure?"

She looks apologetic. "I took a test," she says. "They're supposed to be idiot proof, so it seems to be true."

He nods. Because he's always appreciated idiot proof things in his life, but somehow he'd like to believe that even idiots could get this wrong because Turk can't even breathe right and how is someone like him capable of making a baby? Because even if pregnancy tests are idiot proof, he's somewhat convinced that babies aren't and that could be bad for everyone involved.

Still. Rachel is looking at him and she's flustered (Rachel is never flustered) and he's supposed to say something (because she's looking at him and flustered), and if he can't breathe (or sit, but breathing seems more important), he should still talk (because they're having a baby). "Oh."

"Are you okay?"

He's about to say, sure, he's fine, no big deal, but he's too busy passing out to get there.

-o-

When he comes to, he's flat on his back. Rachel is sitting above him, wide-eyed. "Don't you do that to me!" she says, and she's angry and scared. "You scared me!"

He blinks. "I scared you?" he asks, and he sounds a little feeble. But he's breathing and even if he's not sitting, breathing is an improvement. "You're the one who just told me you're pregnant!"

She looks cross now. "It's not like I got that way on my own," she says.

"It's not like I said it was a bad thing!"

"Oh, so you just passed out from joy?"

"I passed out from shock," Turk clarifies, propping himself up a little bit. "I mean, we're going along, normal and all that, and I'm thinking the biggest thing to contemplate tonight is whether to watch Leno or Letterman and the next thing I know, you're telling me you're pregnant-"

Rachel rolls her eyes, huffing. "It wasn't like I planned on it either," she says.

Turk nods, looking at Rachel carefully. "Well, I guess we better start planning, huh?"

Rachel looks nervous now, wetting her lips. "Is that what you want?"

He shrugs, sitting up a little more. "Is that what you want?"

She situates herself, lifting her chin a little. "I suppose so," she says.

He nods, and tries to understand just what they're talking about. Because he knows what it means to be pregnant, but he doesn't know what it means to be pregnant.

Still. He's just turned down Danny Ocean on the job of a lifetime for this, so it seems like he's already made his choice.

God help him, he's made his choice. "Well," he tells her, taking a shaky breath. "Me, too."

-o-

Whenever Turk starts to regret anything, he looks at Rachel and her growing stomach. He looks at the ultrasound pictures on his desk at work and shifts through the list of names they have scattered all over the house.

It seems silly, then, to regret the death of the life he had, when the new life he's created has so much more potential.

-o-

Turk's on board with having a baby. That isn't hard. The first time he heard the baby's heartbeat, he nearly wet himself and his new favorite hobby is watching Rachel's stomach bounce and jiggle before bedtime. He thinks about Finn, and her giggle and her smile, and Turk can't help but look forward to all of that.

So he's cool with having a baby.

He's just not sure he's cool with the stuff.

Rachel calls it nesting, but Turk calls it insanity. Their entire apartment is overrun, filled with baby books and unisex clothes. Turk's not entirely sure what the hell a Boppy is for, but they've got two, and the breast pump looks downright medieval.

There are stuffed puppies in all colors and a crib and changing table still in boxes for Turk to unpack and assemble. Rachel has experimented with three different nursery themes, from jungle to shabby chic to who the hell cares, and Turk's not only going broke, but a little insane.

"It's not even five pounds yet," Turk rants at Mama Donnelly. He promised Rachel he'd see if she still had any pictures of Jason's room as a baby. "It's not even five pounds and it has more stuff than I do."

Mama Donnelly raises an eyebrow. "The baby is also far cuter than you are at the moment, so I think it deserves whatever it wants."

Turk throws up his hands. "It doesn't want anything," he argues. "It's perfectly happy, swimming in the amniotic fluid, listening to the world outside. It likes to hear songs, familiar voices. Maybe it likes when Rachel moves around or rubs her tummy. But it doesn't like pastel crib sheets and a matching valance. It just doesn't."

Mama Donnelly tuts a little, rolls her eyes. "Your wife is carrying your child inside of her. She does this all day, every day, providing safety, security, and life itself to your offspring," she says and she's looking at Turk sternly. "So if she wants pastel crib sheets and a matching valance, you will buy them for her. When you make commitments, you keep them, do you hear me? And you have a commitment to this woman and the baby she's carrying and if you ever neglect that-" She stops, shaking her head. "Well, then, I promise you that crib sheets will be the least of your concerns."

Needless to say, Turk brings home the photos as requested. He stops by the store and buys another pair of sheets and a valance, in green this time, because the yellow and blue may not be enough. When there's a pink puppy by the checkout, he buys that, too, with a blue one for good measure, because Rachel's insane, but she's his wife, and sometimes Turk forgets how much he gave up to be with her to begin with.

-o-

At Rachel's baby shower, Jason takes him outside for a beer while the women giggle and coo. They're knocking back their second one when a chorus of giggles sound from inside and Jason shakes his head.

"That's crazy," he says.

Turk makes a face and takes a drink. "I think after all these months, I'm immune to the insanity."

Jason snorts a laugh. "You really think you're ready?"

Turk shrugs. "It's not like I have much choice."

Jason takes a swig, swallowing. "You're going to be good at it, though," he says, a little thoughtful.

Turk looks at him, because this is something he's thought about. Something he's worried about. Because he knows he can play just about any part he's given, but fatherhood? Seems like an act he can't fake, and he's scared to admit that he might not have what it takes. "What makes you say that?"

It's Jason's turn to shrug. "You're good at everything you do," he says. "You just decide to do something, and you do it. I mean, you didn't say anything about wanting to be a father, and here you are."

There's truth to that, and not just when it comes to parenthood. His entire life seems to be a series of coincidences that turned into chances. Turk doesn't often pick what he wants out of life, but he's learned to follow through when it counts.

As the baby's due date approaches, he thinks it probably counts now, more than anything.

Turk laughs. "Yeah, here I am."

Jason looks out across the yard. "Maybe you'll get lucky," he says. "And the baby will take after Rachel."

Turk reaches over and slugs him in the arm.

"At least in the height department," Jason amends cruelly.

Turk glares at him. "Just for that, I am going to ask you now."

"Ask me what?"

"If you and Holly will be the godparents."

Jason stares. "Really?"

Turk shrugs. "Rachel's family's all in England," he explains.

"And you trust me?"

Turk looks at him plainly. "I trust you every day on the job to not get me killed," he says. "So far, so good."

Jason laughs. "I suppose that's true."

"So you'll do it?" Turk asks.

Jason nods. "Yeah, we're in," he says. He settles back, taking a long drink. "That kid's going to need someone normal to look up to. It might as well be me."

Turk rolls his eyes. "Might as well."

"You could do worse."

"That's not exactly the measuring stick Rachel and I were going by," Turk says. Then he shrugs, looking purposefully out over the yard. "But hey, you need the practice."

Jason shakes his head. "No way, man," he says. "Holly and I are very happy right now."

Turk raises an eyebrow. "All that talk of babies inside?" he asks. As if on cue, a peal of joined female laughter rings through the windows. "I give it three months and she'll be asking for one, too."

Jason scoffs and opens his mouth to protest. Then he stops. And swears.

Turk laughs.

-o-

Rachel goes into labor on a Wednesday night. Turk's read every book and planned everything, but none of it makes a difference. It's scary, holding Rachel's hand while she screams her way through a contraction, stroking her hair between pushes. It's scarier than a bullet wound or firing a gun. A whole hell of a lot scarier than making an earthquake or running for his life across Europe.

And when the sound of a baby's cry splits the air, it's scarier than all the rest, and then some, and Turk is standing there, watching his daughter scream into this life, wondering how the hell he ended up here.

He's the kid who never tried in school and picked fights because he needed something to prove. He's the guy who'd work a con and waste his years with wayward hobbies and bickering with his brother. He's the guy who helped knock over casinos and didn't get caught and then lied his way into a new life for the lack of something better to do. He's a criminal and he's a cop, and he's a moron and he's book smart, and he's from Utah but still a Jersey boy, and now none of it matters.

Nothing matters, except for the fact that there's a crying baby and she's Turk's responsibility, and that changes everything.

-o-

They can't pick a name.

Turk is used to conflict, because for all that he and Rachel love each other, they never do things the easy way. They spend the first day in sleep-deprived bouts of debate, discussing the merits of names of canonical English literature and picking titles from pizza joints in Newark.

Most of the time, though, it's all about the baby, and they spend surreal moments trying to master the art of diaper changes and swaddling.

By midday after the baby's birth, Rachel has mellowed, mostly because the nurses learned to stop asking if they had figured anything out on the name front yet. Turk knows they can't leave until they have something to put on the birth certificate, but Rachel looks so beautiful, sitting there, holding their daughter, that he actually doesn't care.

The baby is fussy, though, no matter what Rachel does. She shifts positions, from a cradle to a football hold, but nothing seems to take. The baby has dark hair, just like Rachel, but Turk thinks he can see something of himself in her tiny balled up fists as she flails angrily for something to eat.

Rachel shushes her, awkwardly shifting her again. "I'm sorry I'm not very good at this," she apologizes to the baby. "This is all rather new to me."

"Hey," Turk says, moving in closer. He eases in next to Rachel, wrapping one arm around her and using the other to gently touch the baby's hair. "This is all new to all of us, but we'll get the hang of it. It's just going to take some patience."

The baby is smacking her lips. Turk lets his finger drift down, and the baby instinctively latches onto it, sucking eagerly and hard. She shifts in Rachel's arms, settling contentedly.

"A little patience, my ass," Rachel says in awe. "How did you do that? She's been fussing all morning. I thought the nurses were going to come in and arrest me for child neglect."

Turk shrugs a little, his finger still in the baby's mouth. "Patience," he says again. "And maybe some grace, you know? We all need a little grace in our lives."

Rachel stops and looks at him, a smile on her face.

When Rachel tells the nurse that the baby's name is Grace, Turk knows she's right.


	6. Chapter 6

PART SIX

The apartment is too small. Grace's things take up the entire nursery and spill into every nook of the place. Turk trips over baby blankets and sits on rattles and once even uses a box of diapers as an ottoman for three weeks until he realizes it's cardboard.

At three AM, when Grace is crying for reasons no one can discern, Rachel looks at the ceiling and moans. "This proves it. She really is your daughter."

Turk snorts. "I'm sorry, was there doubt about it?"

She laughs, burying her head under a pillow. "What's wrong with her?"

Turk closes his eyes and drowses while he answers. "She fed?"

Rachel unburies herself. "Completely."

"Changed?"

"With diaper cream."

"Too hot?"

"It's 70 degrees, right on the nose," Rachel reports.

Grace cries again, louder now.

"Maybe she needs to be held," Turk suggests.

"I held her for an hour," Rachel says. "I can't take it anymore."

"They say sometimes babies just cry," Turk says, because he read it in a book. "We're not bad parents for letting her cry it out."

"I know," Rachel says.

It's hard not to feel guilty, but it's 3 AM and Turk hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in four months. He finds himself drifting, the sound of Grace's nightly crying fit fading into his consciousness.

There's a sudden pounding at the wall and Rachel groans.

Turk sits up, annoyed and pounds back. "We've got a baby, you moron!" he yells.

The pounding picks up; Grace's wails reach a new pitch.

Rachel rolls onto his stomach. "We've got to move," she says. Then she looks at Turk with a devilish smile. "Your turn."

The problem is, Rachel's right. About both.

And Turk just hopes he can remember that in two hours when he has to wake up to go to work.

-o-

Mama Donnelly watches Grace as they go house hunting. Rachel has a list of places, each more impossible to afford than the last.

"You do remember that we have to buy food, don't you?" Turk asks.

Rachel looks around at the master suite they're standing in. It's bigger than their entire apartment and he's pretty sure that not even Rachel would ever have enough clothes to fill the walk-in closet.

"It's nice," Rachel says.

"Yeah, nice," Turk agrees. "And would put us completely in debt."

"It would stretch the budget a little," she conceded.

"Honey, stretching is an extra hundred a month. Maybe two. This," he says, gesturing to the house around him, "would rip the budget to shreds. There'd be nothing left. After the payment, we'd have about two dollars to both feed and clothe Grace, which, I'm not sure about you, but I'm thinking is not such a good idea since, you know, I'd like our daughter to grow up."

Rachel stiffens, and Turk recognizes her hurt stubbornness. "You try finding a house in our price range in this neighborhood."

Turk meanders to the windows and looks down the street. Each house is bigger than the last. He snorts. "Well, maybe we're in the wrong neighborhood," he says. Then he turns back to Rachel. "Is this really where you see us?"

She crosses her arms of her chest and juts her chin. "And you think you can do better?"

Turk grins, tilting his head. "Babe, I know I can."

-o-

To Rachel's credit, house hunting is easier said than done. Turk is first overwhelmed by the number of properties on the market and then discouraged by how few homes on the market are affordable and not completely dilapidated.

He comes up with a list, though, and when he takes Rachel through, she looks less impressed with each one. But the last one, a 1910 bungalow in a middling neighborhood. It's a bit rundown, but the bones are solid and it has the space they need.

"It could work," he says, rubbing his hand on the woodwork on the staircase.

Rachel looks uncertain. "It needs work."

"And we'll do the work," Turk says.

"I don't know," Rachel says.

"Come on," Turk cajoles. "Think about it. The couch and chairs around the fireplace. Some family photos on the wall. Put a rug down for Grace and tummy time. We can get some shelves over there for storage." He moves around the room, pointing to the various features. "And the sunroom - it will be perfect for an office, a place for you to get away from things. And we'll have a big dining room table, lots of room to entertain." He stops and shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He can almost see it now. "Patch the drywall, sand the floors. Some paint, some polish." He stops, looks at her. "We can do it."

She's not looking at the house, but she's looking at him. Watching him, her eyes narrowed. She shakes her head. "You believe that, don't you?"

He moves closer to her, putting his arms around her waist. It's not that he really wants this house, because he's not actually sure he wants to spend the next thirty years paying off this piece of crap house, especially not when he knows he has enough stashed away to put down on this thing and put it out of its misery. But he can see it, he can see all of it. He can see Rachel on the living room rug with Grace by her side; Rachel waking up in the morning, rolling over in bed; Grace playing on her bedroom floor, toys strewn all about; himself in the kitchen making pancakes on Saturday mornings.

He can see it. And it's the right choice.

He pulls her closer, dropping his forehead to hers. "Yeah," he says. "I really do."

She sighs and lets him kiss her. "Okay," she says.

"Okay?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Okay."

-o-

This is life.

The day starts early with Grace's schedule. They take turns watching her as they get ready for work, Turk getting her dressed and changed while Rachel showers; Rachel feeding her breakfast when Danny takes his turn in the bathroom. Turk drops Grace off at Mama Donnelly's before work, spending five minutes to bestow kisses and hugs, and remind Mama Donnelly for the fiftieth time how she likes her bottle in the mid-morning.

Rachel picks Grace up and they're ready for dinner when Turk finally comes home. In the evenings, they relax together, and Turk tries to find new ways to make Grace giggle while Rachel checks her email. When Grace goes down for bedtime, he and Rachel fall into silent patterns side by side, watching TV, reading, making love.

On weekends, Turk works on the house, finishing projects and starting new ones. Rachel has to work a little and Grace learns to crawl on the freshly stained hardwood in the sunroom.

It's a simple life, a far cry from Vegas casinos and heists. Somehow, the long days in Salt Lake City, growing up with nothing to do except trouble seem just as far.

But Turk's found the one thing you can't inherit from your family and the one thing you can't steal.

Happiness.

And Turk wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

-o-

The thing with being on a job, is that he was always ready for anything. It's hard to ever be truly comfortable when working a job, and there's always a tickle of doubt in the back of your mind. This keeps you aware and alert. Ready for the worst.

Turk's been playing this job long enough, though, that he doesn't have any of that. There is no doubt, no tickle. This makes him happier than he's ever been in his entire life.

So when the bottom falls out, it hits him like a punch in the gut.

He thinks in the years after, he should have seen it coming. If he had remembered that it was a lie, he could have seen it coming.

But he doesn't. Turk's crossed the line, slipped from criminality to normalcy, and he has to face the fact that he's just another dumb schmuck working nine to five trying to make his mortgage payments.

Danny Ocean would have seen this coming. Rusty Ryan would have seen this coming. All of them, every last one - because it's a creed in their line of work: easy come, easy go, and the trick of playing the odds is knowing when to let it ride and when to cut. The reason casinos make money, the reason gamblers are always broke, is because most men don't know when to walk away.

But Turk stops looking for his out. He doesn't have an exit strategy. He has a life and if it can make him happy, it can take him apart.

He should have seen this coming.

-o-

It's a normal arrest. He and Jason have a suspect in a murder.

"Do you think we'll be home early today?" Jason asks as they pull up to the building.

"What," Turk jokes. "Hot date?"

Jason kills the engine and piles out. "I'd just like some extra time with my wife is all."

Turk gets out too and they walk together toward the house. It's got peeling white paint and one of the front windows is boarded over. "She hitting you up for a baby yet?" he asks. He looks at Jason. "She's been pretty avid in babysitting Grace."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Ha ha," he says as they move up the walkway. "It'd just be nice to be home."

Turk can't disagree with that, and they knock on the door, pulling to the sides as Jason clearly identifies who they are.

There's a scuffle inside, and Turk draws his gun. He nods to Jason, who has his gun up, too. Turk moves around, jumping off the porch and running around the back. Jason knocks again with another yell, and as Turk rounds the back, he hears the sound of a door being kicked open.

By the time Turk gets to the back, the sound of gunfire echoes through the air and he swears he can smell the discharge of hot metal. The back door flies open at him and Turk barely has time to think twice before he sees the gun swinging at him.

The suspect's gun goes off, and Turk feels a burning in his leg, but he doesn't let it register.

Instead, he fires - once, twice - and the suspect falls.

For a moment, he stands there, heart pounding, the rush of adrenaline so strong it almost makes him sick. His leg throbs, but distantly, and he looks down at the blood in something of disbelief. He leg threatens to give out, but Turk doesn't know how to let himself fall, and he looks back at the house instead.

But the world's not standing still, he realizes, and it occurs to him that Jason would never give up pursuit like that, not unless...

He doesn't finish the thought.

He's running now, sprinting with a hobbling gait. He bangs through the back door, stumbling through the kitchen. The place is a mess, dim and hazy, but when he gets to the front room, the scene is clear.

Jason's on the ground, sprawled on his back. There's blood on his shirt and his gun is on the floor and Turk comes up short, forgetting how to breathe.

In his mind, Jason is still asking, do you think we'll be home early.

And Turk doesn't know if he wants the answer to be yes or no.

-o-

 

It happens quickly. Turk calls for backup, and hears the sirens as he puts pressure on Jason's wound. Another unit shows up to secure the scene, paramedics not far behind.

They pull him aside, and it's not until someone puts pressure on his leg that he remembers he's been shot.

"Looks like you missed the femoral artery," an EMT tells him, looking studiously at his wound. "And you wouldn't be moving if it hit bone."

This is supposed to be good news, Turk can tell, but he casts a sideways glance at Jason, being loaded on a gurney and whisked outside. His face is pale, chest stained red where they cut away his shirt.

"What about my partner?" Turk asks.

The EMT looks at him, then glances back at his leg. "Let's just focus on you for now."

Turk's told enough lies in his life, that he knows how to recognize them. He just has to wonder if the ones he spins sound as hollow as this.

It's hard to think about, hard to think about Rachel and Grace and Jason being treated like he is now, and the world tilts and he gasps.

The EMT is talking to him still, but Turk's stopped listening and the world tunnels out and he just gives in.

-o-

Turk wakes up in the ambulance, and it doesn't really hurt. He's still awake in the emergency room, where he's stripped and stitched.

"It was in and out," the doctor tells him. "Doesn't seem to be any significant damage. We've given you some blood to make up for the amount you lost, but with some time and rest, you're going to be just fine."

With some time, Turk thinks. He tries to remember how much time he's taken. Tries to remember when he started to be Danny Williams and left Turk Malloy behind. Tries to remember when he stopped lying to everyone around him and just started lying to himself. Tries to remember.

He can't. Turk can't remember anything. When they give him a sedative, he lets himself sleep instead.

-o-

When they transfer him to a room, he asks about Jason. He's on Jason's emergency contact list, so the doctor is forthcoming. "He's in surgery now," she says. "They need to get the bleeding under control and deal with the damage to his kidney."

"Is he going to be okay?" Turk asks.

She smiles, squeezes his arm. "We'll have to see how the surgery goes," she says. "But he's lucky to have people like you - his family to support him. That makes all the difference."

Turk wants to believe it. He wants to believe it so badly. Because he realizes now, he can't pull out, not even if he wants to. It scares the crap out of him to be playing with stakes that matter, but with everything on the line, the risk of folding is worse than banking it all on one last hand.

Jason is his partner. Jason is his brother, not like Virgil, but close enough. Turk knows that reality is mostly perception, and the fact is he doesn't know how to separate Danny Williams from Turk Malloy anymore. The lines are blurred and the guise is deeper than the reality. He's not one or the other, but he's a little of both.

I bet you can't hold a real job.

Years later, Turk's answer is still the same.

He doesn't need to bet. Because he's seen his brother bet and raised him a family and a life, and Turk's has to bank on that until the end.

-o-

He's so preoccupied with Jason, that Turk doesn't think to call Rachel until he hears her in the hall.

"I don't care about your procedure!" she yells. "My husband is in this hospital and no one will tell me if he's alive or dead or serious maimed or whatever, so I don't care about your damn procedure!"

When a nurse finally shows her Danny's room, she stands in the doorway for a moment, looking at him before her face scrunches with tears. "Oh, God, Daniel," she breathes. She moves forward, lacing her arms around him, burying her head in his shoulder.

"Hey," he murmurs, trying to wrangle his arms around her despite his IVs. "I'm okay. It's okay."

She takes a shuddering breath, and Turk feels her tears on his neck.

Then, abruptly, she pulls away, swatting him hard in the arm.

Turk protests, surprised. "Hey!"

"I thought you were dead!"

"So you're hitting me?" Turk asks incredulously.

"For scaring me like that!" she exclaims. She shakes her head. "I mean, have you not heard of a phone? I know you have one because I bought you one for Christmas. If a phone call is too much, a simple text-"

"You know I can't work that thing," he says.

She blows out a breath. "I don't care about your goofy thumbs or your inexplicable aversion to modern technology, I just care about knowing you're alive."

"A lot was just happening-"

"Really?" she asks pointedly. "Well, it's not exactly been an easy morning from me getting a call from the hospital telling me to come right away. They wouldn't tell me anything else, and the entire drive I was trying not to think about all the ways you could be dead and how I was going to raise Grace on my own and-"

Her voice cuts off, stunted by a sob, and Turk feels his heart lurch. She's worked up and trying not to cry, so he holds his arms out and pulls her to him.

Rachel resists for a moment, then melts, sobbing into his arms right there on the hospital bed.

-o-

Turk is discharged two days later, and Jason is awake by the time he leaves. He's weak but smiling on the hospital bed when Turk visits him.

"It's nothing," Jason assures him.

"You took a bullet," Turk says. "Scared the crap out of me."

Jason huffs weakly. "If I had known how easy this was, I wouldn't have doted on you so much when you took one."

Turk laughs. "Lucky me, then," he says, and looking at his best friend awake and breathing, he knows that much is true.

-o-

Little things change. Grace starts walking and then she's talking. Jason gets back to work and Holly gets pregnant. Turk's never been more aware of his gun and he pulls it more often than he probably should, but sometimes when he hears a sound, he thinks of Jason bleeding on the ground, and he really can't help himself.

Turk's not the only one on edge. He sees Rachel watching him from the window when he pulls in at night, and she hugs him a little longer before work each morning. When Turk talks about the job, she gets uncomfortable and sometimes it makes her mad.

"You never make an effort with me anymore," she sighs at night, pulling away from him under the covers.

Turk frowns. "I thought we were just talking."

She eyes him critically. "Your idea of foreplay is telling me about how to cuff someone," she says. "I married a man, not a cop."

"You married both," he says. "I thought you knew that."

She sighs again, and rolls over.

"Rachel," he says.

"Go to bed, Danny," she says. "We've both had longs days."

He stares at her a minute longer, trying to think of something to say. When he comes up with nothing, he turns off the light.

-o-

And then they fight.

He comes home late. Dinner is cold on the table.

"I just had to finish up with the suspect," Turk explains.

"You give your best to criminals and scoundrels, and leave us with your leftovers!"

"It's not like that," Turk says back, frustrated.

She slams her dishrag on the table and stalks out of the kitchen. "Well, it certainly feels like it."

-o-

The problem is, it's easy to charm someone for a day. Turk can even pull off weeks and months. But as the months disappear into years, somehow it just gets harder.

Not that Turk doesn't try, but he's already made himself into someone different once, and no matter how hard Rachel wants him to try again, he just can't.

"I can't take it," she says, throwing her hands up. "This job, this lifestyle - it's too much."

"I can pick up extra shifts, get some more money," Turk offers, and for the first time in what feels like years, he thinks about the money he has stashed away. "We can buy a nicer house."

"It's not about the house," Rachel explodes back.

Turk flails his hands. "Then what is it about?"

"The job, Danny," she says. "It's about the job. The hours, the stress, the danger - I can't do this. I wasn't meant to do this."

And that's the breaking point, because it's the one thing Rachel can't do and it's the only thing Turk can do, and no matter how much they love each other, it's an impasse they'll never put behind them.

-o-

When Rachel serves him with papers, Turk isn't surprised, but it hurts him all the same. They fight and he rants and she raves but it doesn't change anything.

She gets custody of Grace, and it's not even a year later and she's dating again.

When Danny gets news of her engagement, he's still working his ass off as a detective with Jason by his side, and trying to figure out what sacrifices were worth what in the end.

-o-

When he moves out for good, Turk finds a box in the closet. He recognizes Virgil's handwriting and inside he finds the wedding gift. The broken relic seems lonely now, not a cherished momento of how far he's come, but sullen reminders of what he's failed. The note taunts him now.

We made a bet. Looks like I lost.

Only now, it looks like Virgil just cashed out too soon.

Turk has to wonder now, if maybe he did, too.

He takes the plaque off the wall on the way out and packs it in a box and puts it Mama Donnelly's attic, because he has no other place for it to go.

-o-

Turk's a survivor. He keeps going. Jason and Holly let him stay as long as he needs, even with the birth of their son, and Jason's mom insists on him moving in. Turk normally doesn't like charity, but this feels like family, and Turk needs that now.

Plus, it's better for Grace. She loves Jason, and calls his mother Grandma. Even without Rachel, Turk still has a family, still has a life, still has a job.

He thinks, he can do this. For Grace. He can do this and thrive.

Until Rachel tells him she's moving to Hawaii.

"Not with Grace you're not," Turk tells her definitively.

"I already talked to my lawyer," she says. "I'm sorry, but I have primary custody."

"Primary custody my ass," Turk says. "I share custody."

Rachel's expression darkens. "Oh, and how are you going to watch her while pulling twelve hour shifts? How will you pick her up from school?"

"I can hire a nanny," Turk shoots back. "It works for you and Stanley."

Her face turns red. "Then you can fight me in court," she says, and she storms out.

"Don't worry," Danny calls after her. "I will!"

-o-

Turk hasn't fought hard for a lot in his life, and nothing compares to the fight he puts up for Rachel. He expends all his finances on the best lawyer he can find, and he uses all his free time trying to make a case for why Rachel shouldn't be allowed to move so far with his daughter.

He makes a good, impassioned argument, but Turk should have known, he can't win them all.

This is the only one that matters, and he can't win it. He's put it all on the line, and come up short, and when the ruling gives Rachel the go ahead to move with Grace in tow, it feels like he's been shot all over again.

It feels like he's been shot, like his cover's been blown, like he's reading his own obituary. It feels like all of that and more, because this time, he's losing Grace.

Turk's lost some important things, but he's never lost something like this.

-o-

Grace moves on a Tuesday. He takes the entire week before off, and spends every moment with her. He takes her to the city and they go to the museums. He takes her to the zoo and buys her hot dogs and cotton candy. They see a baseball game and he buys her anything she wants.

It's a desperate week, trying to fit a lifetime into the fleeting moments he has with his daughter.

When she gets on the plane, he stands in the terminal and watches it until it's gone. He watches the sky a long time after, trying to understand the loss, trying to understand anything.

He wonders, if he had known this, if he would have picked the job over Rachel. If he would have moved to New Jersey. If he would have killed Turk Malloy. If he would have taken Virgil's bet at all.

Because the problem with really living is that you risk really losing. Turk Malloy could never lose because he never had anything worth betting.

And no matter how much it hurts, Turk doesn't think he could give any of it up, not even knowing the end. Because the in betweens mattered. They mattered so much.

Which is what makes what comes after so hard.

He drives home alone, and turns off his cell phone. He locks his room and shuts off the lights and sleeps until morning. When he wakes up, Grace is still gone and he still has a job to do, but for the first time since he started this, it doesn't seem worth it.

-o-

Life is quiet. Jason does his best to distract him and Mama Donnelly does the best she can to pamper him. But it's a losing battle, and Turk feels like he did all those years ago on his brother's couch: directionless and lonely.

In all the years since he started this con, it's never felt as fake as it does now.

-o-

Turk's not sure how Danny knows, but it's Danny so Turk really isn't surprised.

The call is from R. Kelty this time, but Turk knows the voice all the same. "I heard you might be in the market for a change," R. Kelty says.

Turk shifts silently, his gut churning. He's said no for so long, that somehow the idea of saying yes still scares him

But Rachel's married to Stanley and Grace is in Hawaii, so Turk knows that the odds are that he doesn't have much left to lose. "Maybe," he says finally. "What did you have in mind?"

-o-

This time Danny's with Linus, who somehow still looks like the same baby faced kid.

"It's a job in upstate New York," Linus says. "I've got this - we've got this - contact there-"

"He wants us to get something that once belonged to him," Danny finishes concretely.

Turk's too tired to put up many pretenses and he's been a cop too long not to ask the obvious. "And he's not calling the cops because?"

Linus glances at Danny. Danny doesn't flinch.

Linus shrugs a little. "It sort of wasn't his to begin with," he says.

"Ah," Turk says. "A thief who got robbed."

"He tracked down who did it, but can't report it to the proper authorities without the status of the piece getting pinged," Danny explains. "He wants us to come, lift the piece, and take whatever else we want to sweeten the pot."

"All stolen goods?" Turk asks.

"From private collections around the world," Danny confirms.

"We're talking six figure draws for each person involved," Linus offers.

Turk thinks about this. "Who do you have on board?"

"Me, Danny," Linus begins. "We think we've got Basher in from England and Livingston's always up for something."

"Yen, Rusty," Danny continues.

"That enough?" Turk asks critically.

"With you, that's seven," Linus points out.

"I think we can do it with seven," Danny says.

"But we do need seven," Linus says.

Danny looks at him, benignly curious. "So are you in?"

-o-

Turk takes a weekend. Danny says they'll be in town until Tuesday, so Turk can take his time. On the way back to Jersey, Turk thinks about the first time Danny hired him. Funny, in all those years, Danny hasn't changed. Rusty hasn't either. They are constants, held true in the unyielding current of this world.

Turk could have been like them. Turk could still be working out of Utah, doing what he always did. Turk could have still been stealing cable and blowing cash.

But he's a different man now, and some things are the same, but a lot of it isn't. Time has gone by and it has shaped who Turk is.

It's a choice, not just between crime and respectability, but between making the rules and following them. Between getting ahead and getting by.

Between enduring and living.

This was never Turk's idea, and that's the funniest part to him. That he never would have done this without Virgil, and that he never thought it through any step of the way. He's learned about plans and details, and Turk threw them both away, and so maybe it's no surprise he's ended up where he has.

-o-

He's got a new place, at least, but it's smaller and lonelier than his apartment back in Salt Lake. His things are still in boxes and he's stopped concerning himself with anything resembling house cleaning. His books are still at Mama Donnelly's, and he sprung for extended cable for lack of something better to do.

He spends the day after meeting with Danny on the couch. He gets up to take a piss and get a new beer, but not much else. When there's a knock at the door, Turk zones it out.

When Jason is standing right in front of him turning off his TV, it's a little harder to ignore.

"I was watching that," Turk squawks in protest.

Jason rolls his eyes, tossing the remote on a chair. "Really? So what was on?"

Turk opens his mouth to reply, but beyond the flash of lights and the droning sound, Turk doesn't know.

Jason shakes his head. "This is stupid."

Turk glowers at him. "It's not stupid."

"No, it is stupid," Jason says.

Turk sighs, letting his head drop back against the couch. "I do not need another lecture," he says. He lifts his head to look at Jason again. "Every single person in your family and half the NPD have given me this speech."

"That's because we're all worried about you," Jason says.

Turk sighs, holding his hands out. "I'm transitioning, okay? My wife left me, married some little turd, and then took my daughter, the only thing that I had left, all the way to the middle of nowhere."

Jason rolls his eyes again, this time in total disgust. "Oh, please," he says.

Turk shrugs incredulously. "You think I'm being inaccurate?"

"I think you're being a moron."

"How am I being a moron?"

Jason throws his arms out. "How aren't you being a moron?"

"All things considered, I think I'm pretty dead on," Turk says.

"You do?"

"I do."

Jason's posture shifts and he leans forward. "First of all, what the hell are you talking - the only thing you have left? What about me? Holly? Scottie? Or have you forgotten that you're his godfather? And what about Mom? We accepted your pansy ass into our lives long before Rachel was ever in the picture and if you think you're going to get rid of us now just because she bailed, then you're even more of an idiot than I thought."

Turk opens his mouth.

Jason doesn't stop. "Second, transitioning implies going someplace. Doing something. Right now, you're sitting on your ass doing nothing. You're not transitioning, you're decaying, and I'm pretty damn sick of your pity parties all the time."

Turk's jaw drops further.

"Third," Jason continues, unrelenting. "Rachel moved to Hawaii, which contrary to your insistence, is actually an official part of the United States that is very nice."

Turk's eyes may bug.

Jason gives him no chance. "And last of all, you're acting like there's nothing you can do about it except sit around on your ass and act like a friggin' moron, which, really, does make you a friggin' moron, not to mention a pissy best friend and a poor excuse for a partner!"

Turk's mouth closes and he breathes hard through his nose. He looks at Jason, who doesn't waver, hardly even blinks. Swallowing hard, Turk sits tensely. "Are you done?"

Jason's stances eases slightly. "Almost," he says.

"Almost? You mean, you have more? It's not enough to kick me when I'm down, you want to actually run over me with your car? Maybe just dig my grave and then bury me while I'm still breathing, because, you know, my life doesn't suck enough."

Jason looks away, wets his lips. He looks back at Turk, shaking his head. "You don't get it, man."

"No, you don't get it," Turk says, sitting up a little now. His voice sharpens, because this is the reason he's drowned himself in anything but the truth. "Rachel and Grace - they were my world. I did everything for them. I didn't know what being happy was until them, and then Rachel - she took that from me. She took it from me. Because I could cope playing the divorced dad. I could cope with getting every other weekend. But she took Grace to Hawaii. And I don't care if it's the tourist capital of the entire world, it's not here."

Jason shakes his head, almost laughing now. "Yeah, I get all that," he says. "But aren't you forgetting?"

Turk frowns, shaking his head. "Forgetting what? That Rachel screwed me for alimony, too?"

"No, genius," he says. "That even in Hawaii, your so-called hell, there are cops. I mean, I don't want you to leave, but I can't see you like this. I want you to be happy. If being by Grace will make you happy, then put in for a transfer."

Turk can't hear the rest. Can't hear anything. Because he hasn't been looking very hard for a counterargument to Danny's offer, but Jason has given him one nonetheless.

Like most things in Turk's life, the thought doesn't cross his mind until someone else brings it up, and then when they do, it's all he can think about.

There are cops in Hawaii.

It's a revelation.

Rachel left him and moved Grace across the world, but there are cops in Hawaii.

-o-

It's been years, and Turk's sitting in his crappy apartment, thinking about the way this all started.

It started as a bet.

A foolish gamble between brothers. Not the first he's made, but in all these years, it sort of looks like it may have been the last.

He started this to prove to Virgil that he could do it, and he found every reason in the world to stay with it. The pay, the stability. Rachel, Grace.

That's all gone now. Rachel's taken Grace to live with Step Stan in some tropical paradise Turk has no desire to see. He grew up in the desert and came to life in this city, and pineapples and crystal blue oceans don't pay like robberies and don't make him human like a badge.

He has visitation rights, of course, but with all the miles between them, it's not like he has much opportunity to use them. Rachel would never know if he's still working as a cop or not, and if he's honest, she no longer has a right to care. Grace's still young enough to believe whatever he tells her, and as long as he shows up with presents, he figures she'll still love him all the same.

In all, Turk has no reason to decline Danny's offer. The pay is good and with that kind of loot, he can buy Grace enough stuff to make sure she won't forget him no matter where he's living. He's proven his point - proved it years ago - and so maybe it's time to stop trying to hard and live the good life.

It's a no-brainer, really. Working with the best of the best, with no strings attached. Turk knows he should say yes.

So he's not sure why he can't make the call.

Because he's sitting there, in his crappy apartment, surrounding by all the things he's built. It's not a lot, really, not for the time and effort he's put into it, but it's still stuff that matters. Pictures of Grace. A commendation from his captain. His badge and gun. Memorabilia from the ball games with the guys from the precinct.

Danny Williams matters to people. If he takes Danny Ocean's call, they'll miss him. They'll know he's gone.

In all his years out of the game, he's only gotten calls for gigs and subtle check-ins from Ocean's team. There's making a buck and making a difference, and if Turk has learned nothing else these last few years, he's learned that much.

Danny Williams is down, but he's not out. He's got some money in his savings account and a support system that will help him. His captain will put in a good word for him, and even Hawaii needs cops.

Turk can follow Danny Ocean and become a rich man, no strings attached.

Or Turk can become Danny Williams, once and for all, and let that take him wherever it will.

It starts as a bet.

It ends as another one. Because Turk doesn't know what life is like in Hawaii and he's got no guarantee that he'll get more visitation if he moves, but one thing he knows is that some risks are worth taking, and the trick is knowing when to bet it all.  
 _  
end_


End file.
